


(i don't know) euphoria

by ssuppositiouss



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Memories, Pining, Reincarnation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssuppositiouss/pseuds/ssuppositiouss
Summary: Dipper is a student researcher who wants nothing more than to learn anything and everything about ancient Gravity Falls. Bill, as the reincarnation of journal author Lord Stanford's Muse, has no problem manipulating the little scholar who just might be the key to getting him his power back.(AU based loosely on "The Mummy")
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Dipper Pines
Comments: 54
Kudos: 67





	1. celebrate the insane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: implied non-con, language (overuse of the word 'whore' in the final section)

“Dipper! Dipper!” Mabel’s footsteps bound through the marble halls of the museum, her very presence echoing loudly enough that Dipper pauses in his reading.

_It was after this discovery that Stanford Pines was granted the title of Lord and relocated to the palace to serve as the lead researcher and mage for the king. Despite his numerous scientific achievements, he is best known as the author of texts merging magic and science, creating at least three separate journals documenting his discoveries and plans to betray King G—_

She skids to a stop at the doorway. “Guess _what_?”

Dipper can’t help his smile, resting his chin in his hand. “What?” He glances at his textbook page, taking a mental note of where he is, since he knows he won’t get back to studying for a long while with Mabel around. Thankfully, he and Mabel are the only ones in the university’s small museum library. Most students use the grand library on the main campus, but Dipper isn’t much of a people person, preferring the solitude of this smaller library, as well as its selection of original texts relating to ancient Gravity Falls.

“You have to _guess_!” She’s as excitable as ever, though, and Dipper knows it won’t be long before—“You got me! Get over here, little brother!”

“It was _five minutes_!” Dipper rolls his eyes and begins collecting his things, shoving his papers into his textbook and rushing to dump everything into his bag. It was hard enough to get everything to fit the first time. Now with pages and pages of notes, it’s near impossible. The bag bulges in a way Dipper is reluctant to carry, but he sighs and adjusts the strap on his shoulder. The things he does for research!

If he keeps this up, he hopes he’ll be selected as the next researcher to join on the university’s excavation for Stanford’s crypt. His previous three applications were rejected for lack of experience (and _possibly_ due to poor interviewing skills, as he had been a nervous, sweaty, itchy mess during his first meeting with the Headmaster), but he’s sure that his extensive knowledge of the ancient Falls will prove his worth. Not many people can read and write and even speak a dead language only used in a small area.

He's been teaching himself about the Falls since he’d started dreaming about it in his early teenage years, after all.

Lost in thought, it’s on his way to Mabel that he stumbles, plummeting face first into an old bookshelf. “Oww!”

He hears the shelf creak and fall before he realizes exactly what he’s done, and he rushes to the other side of the shelf to try and stop it as it crashes into another, and another. Mabel rushes to his side to offer her own strength, but two twins are not enough to face the wrath of old, creaky book cases.

Books scatter, dusty volumes spreading around them, bringing a haze to what previously was a bright little library.

“Oh gosh, _Dipper_!”

Papers fly everywhere, books falling like rain, and the sounds echo and echo and _echo_.

Dipper looks around the library that he’s inadvertently destroyed, cheeks flaming. Maybe _next_ year’s application will be the one they’ll accept.

“Umm.” He bites at his lower lip, trying to distract himself. He hasn’t even finished reading all the volumes here, and now they’re possibly damaged beyond repair. They’re going to know it was him, he’s the only one clumsy enough to—

“So you helped redecorate.” Mabel waves a hand as though knocking over three bookshelves of old first editions is _nothing_ , but Dipper continues internally freaking out. He doesn’t have _near_ enough social prowess to brush off something like this. He has a bad history of tripping over nothing and of falling into furniture, but usually the damages are reparable. Ruining priceless books. . . not as reparable as he’d like.

Maybe if he offers to rewrite the books? Retype them? The main library has several typewriters, he’s sure he can stay late to remake old texts. He’s taken notes on most of them. It's not the same as having the originals themselves, but—

“C’mon, it’s not that bad!”

Mabel can charm her way out of everything. Dipper finds himself in these awkward situations more times than should be normal. He shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.

“Mabel, I destroyed a _library_!” He digs his teeth deeper into his lip, drawing blood. “What if they expel me? Or I can’t apply for the Ford Expeditions anymore? Or what if these books were priceless donations that I just—”

“Hey.” Mabel smiles at him—a small one meant to provide comfort rather than laugh at his expense, though he knows that at some point in the future, they’ll have a laugh about his clumsiness, _again_ —and elbows him in the stomach. “I _told_ you, I have just the thing to cheer you up!”

Having been the firsthand witness to some of Mabel’s schemes, Dipper takes a step back, stumbling over a fallen book and flailing. Mabel catches him before he can wreck the library even further. “Uhh, I think I’m okay, actually?”

Except that all this happened in his excitement to get to Mabel, so maybe he should just. . . accept it.

“No, no!” Mabel tosses her bag to the floor, digging around its contents. Dipper eyes the library awkwardly. Is there a way they can do this somewhere else? Somewhere they _won’t_ recognize that the pathetic loser Dipper Pines has caused another mess? But Mabel has her mind set, and he can’t ignore her whims. She keeps him from getting too lost in his own head, after all. “This is exactly the kind of nerd thing that’ll get you razzled!”

“I don’t get _razzled_. . .” Except he does. Get razzled. Sometimes.

He just turned thirteen when he first had a dream about an ancient civilization in Gravity Falls, a magic that could raise people from the dead, a science that could grant unspeakable power, and he’d woken up eager to research all there was to know about the palace he’d traversed in his dreams.

He's long forgotten the details of his dreams, but he taught himself the ancient language, learned of differed codes and ciphers that may have been used to hide Stanford’s works. He knows he can be useful, if he ever makes it to ancient Gravity Falls.

Mabel holds a torn page of _something_ in her hands, the edges worn but the ink still pristine. The page is crumpled, and it could be anything. A page of garbage, an old art project, a teenager’s notebook, nothing valuable.

But Dipper, who has studied everything about Gravity Falls history and has dedicated his research to finding the hidden journals, knows exactly what he’s looking at, and his high-pitched squeal is enough to make them _both_ forget about the mess he’s created in the library.

“Where did you _get_ this?”

He snatches the parchment from Mabel’s hands, eyes drinking in every strange letter, every sketch. This is the work of _the_ Stanford Pines, without a doubt. But how did Mabel come across something hidden for _centuries_ , when Dipper’s been studying for ages just to be allowed _near_ an excavation site?

Mabel closes her bag and holds it at her side, sounding only slightly sheepish when she says, “You have to _promise_ not to get mad.”

How could he get mad when he’s _holding_ Stanford’s journal page? “It’s about his _Muse_ , the one he worked with on the secret dimensional machine!” He knows he sounds giddy, or rather, _razzled_ , but he can’t help his excitement. “The _portal_!”

“Dipper.”

“Oh wow, oh wow! I wonder if he was in _love_ with his Muse, I don’t know how no one thought of this, the way Stanford describes him here is just—”

“Dipper!”

“I’m sure of it now! I need to write this down, I never thought there could’ve been more to their relationship, the Muse isn’t even _named_ in any of the historical texts—”

“ _Dipper!_ ”

Dipper tears his eyes away from the paper just long enough to for his smile to dim slightly. “Mabel.”

Her face holds an expression that’s more Dipper-like than Mabel-like: slightly embarrassed, cheeks pink, all too aware of doing something very wrong. Dipper wonders if he always looks like this when Mabel sees him. It’s not the best look. Not that it _matters_ , he’s holding Stanford’s journal page! “I _may_ be, kind of. . . tookitfromacuteguyattheabandonedshack!”

Dipper blinks, processes her statement. “ _What_?”

“You promised you wouldn’t get mad!”

“I didn’t say anything!” He can’t really be mad at Mabel, though, especially not when she’s brought him _this_. But the look on Mabel’s face does have him second-guessing. She always gets into strange situations that Dipper doesn’t even have the imagination to _dream_.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” Mabel teases, sticking out her tongue.

Dipper spares a final glance at the destroyed library, then rubs the back of his neck, directing a small smile at Mabel. “Cute guy, huh?”

* * *

Bill Cipher knew there was _some_ thing about Shooting Star that would make everything worthwhile, beyond her strikingly familiar appearance.

He is always dramatic about his lack of ancient language abilities, waving the ancient journal around like a beacon for _someone_ to recognize. New Gravity Falls is full of _imbeciles_ , though, idiots who wouldn’t even recognize priceless artifacts _slapping_ them in their pathetic faces!

No one ever interacted with him before—well, not in the way he wants; he’s tall and attractive, he dresses to the nines, and he's charismatic, so people do more than _want to_ _interact_ with him—until this woman. She doesn’t have the talent he’s looking for, but she claims she knows someone who does, which is promising on its own.

She’s excitable (more than he’d expect for a girl and an old journal) and she’s admittedly very pretty, with flowing brown hair and large brown eyes and a personality that brightens her appearance as well as her everything. She dresses with the latest fashions to accentuate her height and delicate curves. A girl with his own tastes, it seems.

With a quick handshake and exchange of names to seal the deal, she returns only a few hours later, dragging a man who has to be her twin. He’s clutching an old hat to his head, a bag at his side loaded and likely heavier than his own body weight.

Though he wanted someone nerdy enough to translate the journal, there’s something about this twin that positively _annoys_ Bill.

He looks just like—

“Mabel!” The twin is out of breath.

Shooting Star is a much better name. She wasn't instrumental in his past life, unless there are dreams he still hasn’t had, but he’s sure she would have been a force to be reckoned.

“It was _him_!” she exclaims, pointing. Her skirts flounce around her as she skids to a halt, and her twin _actually_ trips over his own feet at the sudden stop, dust and pine needles scattering around them.

He’s never met anyone actually clumsy enough to do that, and he can’t bite back his boisterous laugh at the man’s expense. Path _etic_.

They’re in a small clearing right at the edge of the forest blocking the path to the old Falls. No one really travels the woods anymore, not since the Blind Eye started brainwashing anyone who tried.

Bill has been planting seeds and whispering rumors to the wind, waiting for the _right_ person to show up and help with his language issue. All it took, apparently, was hanging around an old shack—it was his and Stanford's old hideaway, back then, before he’d set it ablaze and left nothing behind—while an artist tried to paint. But Bill isn’t sure how helpful this pair will be, the longer he looks at them.

The clumsy twin still hasn’t stood up from his fall, eyeing Bill skeptically. “Really?” _He’s not_ that _cute_ , Bill swears he hears this twin mumble. _Why is he dressed like he’s from a catalog?_

Bill is more than plenty cute! He shoots a glare at the man at his feet. Are those. . . little bits of paper stuck in his curly hair?

He really does look just like. . . His scowl deepens. Yes, this twin is on Bill’s bad side.

“Shooting Star,” Bill starts, ignoring the brother, “ _Mabel_ , I thought you’d return with someone who could read ancient Falls ciphers.”

She smiles sheepishly, a slight pink to her cheeks as she yanks her brother up to his full height. This man—Pine Tree, Bill decides to call him, for the pine needles that have landed in his hair from his clumsiness—stands at nearly the same height as his sister, perhaps even shorter, despite his hat. They’re both shorter than Bill by a _lot_ , at least several years younger, and nowhere near as fit as they could be. Probably useless in navigating the traps of the underground, secret caverns. There’s no way Stanford would have made this easy for them.

That is, if he’ll be bringing them along.

“I can _read_ and _speak_ the ancient Falls languages!” Pine Tree exclaims, dropping his bag and getting closer to Bill’s face.

_“Lord William!” Bright brown eyes are too eager. Bill wants to quash that excitement, wants to redirect that passion toward— “I can help you; I studied Mister Stanford’s notes.”_

“Really? What are you, fifteen?”

“Twenty!” Mabel offers with a wink.

"Fifteen?" Pine Tree looks indignant and suspicious. “How did someone like _you_ get a page of Stanford’s journal?”

Bill takes the man’s chin into his hand, pulling him forward and examining his face. His cheeks are dotted with freckles, his hair wild and curly—and covering a probably _ugly_ birthmark on his forehead, if the vision that just popped into his head is anything to go by. Pine Tree is startlingly _average_ and horribly familiar, but he has wide eyes with enough curiosity and _fire_ in them that—

An idea bursts in his head.

 _He’ll do just fine_.

Bill strokes Pine Tree’s cheek with his thumb, watching as the man’s face flushes pink. Well, well, _well_.

Some things don't change, do they?

“The fact that you know it’s a page from the journal is _promising_.” He flashes a grin at the twins, all sharp angles and teeth. He’s aware of his own handsome features, the way it is making _both_ twins shiver. It's his looks and charisma that got Mabel to deliver the journal page in the first place. He’s not averse to using his looks for the greater good. “But what does it _say_?”

“If you can’t even read it, what proof is my translation to you?”

“Who says I can’t read it?”

“If you could, you wouldn’t need someone who knows the ancient Falls languages.”

"Maybe I'm looking for a second eye."

"Maybe you're too arrogant to admit you need _me_."

"Maybe you're too nerdy to see that you're—"

“It’s a page about his Muse.” Mabel shoves her hand in her brother’s pocket, interrupting the tension between the two as she waves the page around.

Bill laughs, loud as ever. He’d ripped the page at random, it’s _hilarious_ that it wound up being a passage about himself! “Yeah?”

"C'mon, show yourself off, Dip!"

 _Dip?_ The pieces are falling into place, but Bill doesn't like it.

Pine Tree takes the page, glancing at Bill before licking his lips and beginning his translation. “He is a true gentleman, my Muse, one of the friendliest and most trustworthy loves of my life.” Bill feels his face warm, can almost hear the words in Stanford’s voice, a little rough, a lot of caring, and so, so much trust. “We are collaborating on a project that will change the Falls, change everything. Together, we will rewrite the course of history.”

He pauses and frowns, throwing Bill from his reverie. The killjoy! It’s like he knew Bill was enjoying himself, throwing himself back into his old life. “I know there’s more,” he says flatly, daring this stranger to argue.

“I. . ."

"Can't translate anymore?" Knew it. Useless Pine Tree. Just as useless as—

"There are some calculations."

“Math?” Mabel peers at the page, taking it in her hand and folding it into an origami bird, as though it will help with translating. She pretends to flap its wings. “Those are just weird symbols.”

“I think they’re related to the portal Stanford was supposed to have built.” He’s vibrating in excitement. Disgusting. The longer he looks at Mabel's origami creation, the more excited he gets. Is this how twin collaboration works? Is he going to have to bring _both_ of them? “It would make sense. . . Stanford was the King’s right hand, his scientist and mage. He and his Muse were rumored to be working on something big, but the king found out and had Stanford killed for it because he thought Stanford was going after his power!”

Bill grew up dreaming in his mindscape, piecing together memories of his previous life, but he hasn’t recovered everything, and he certainly doesn’t have the same knowledge of ancient Gravity Falls that this Pine Tree is proving to have. He doesn’t know what the Journal says, which means he doesn’t know where to go to find Stanford’s resting place.

He doesn’t have his power back.

He’ll _use_ this boy, for now.

“Oooh! What happened to his Muse, though?”

“That’s the thing,” he turns to his sister, ignoring Bill—that _jerk_!—as he continues, “all records of the Muse were burned in the Falls Fires after Stanford’s death. It’s almost like the Muse wasn’t _meant_ to be found. . .”

Mabel lights up. “Do you think the _Muse_ —”

“I can lend you the Journal,” Bill interrupts before the conversation goes too far, looking between both twins, “for a price. A _deal_ , if you will.”

Bill has lacked the ability to learn the ancient languages of Gravity Falls. Dreams of a past where he had power often left him eager for sleep over knowledge, unfortunately. But Pine Tree appears to be a scholar, of sorts, dedicated to learning anything and everything about what Gravity Falls used to be. There’s an excitement sparkling in his eyes at the prospect of reading the journal.

Useful as this _nerdiness_ may prove, it irritates Bill, an annoyance burning under his skin.

“How did you find it, though?” Pine Tree clicks his tongue, unfolding the origami bird journal page—giving a sympathetic look to his sister as he does so—and pocketing it once more. Bill doesn’t intend on leaving the page with him; it’s a page about _himself_ after all! He needs to frame it! “It was hidden long before his betrayal, because he didn’t want the king to destroy his work! No one has found any of the journals for _centuries_.”

"Might want to recheck those sources." Bill glares at Pine Tree. “ _Clearly_.”

Mabel snickers, and Pine Tree’s cheeks turn pink. “Centuries!” he emphasizes. “I’m sorry, but _how_ are we supposed to trust you?”

“You can’t.”

You _shouldn't_.

“Then we’re not interested.”

Bill pulls the third journal from a pocket in his jacket, an old book with a six-fingered handprint on the cover, waving it in front of the twins. He watches Pine Tree’s expression, and something hot begins to curl around him at all the emotions flickering in Pine Tree's wide eyes. He clears his throat, trying to ignore the strange, familiar, _disgusting_ feeling.

Mabel looks surprised, skeptical. She’s clearly the more trusting of the two. Bill would’ve had a much easier time with just her, if she were the one who could translate. How frustrating. She takes on a more suspicious tone, mimicking her twin. “Where’d you find the journal, Bill?”

He sighs. “I’m an adventurer, of sorts.” Adventurer. _Sure_. He frowns, tries again. “I stumbled across this journal in the base of one of the trees in the old Falls.”

Stumbled. . . Was the one who helped hide it there. . . Went back for it years later. . . Same difference.

“If you knew it was valuable, why didn’t you bring it to the museum or to a historian, or—”

“I. . . want to find Stanford’s other journals myself.”

"Why?"

He glances at Pine Tree, choosing his next words carefully. “Historians won’t appreciate Stanford’s work the way I want to. There’s more to his story than the books say.”

Pine Tree’s eyes are stuck on the journal, practically salivating like a hound for a treat, so Bill is unsurprised when Mabel speaks for her brother instead. “But why do you want to find them? Is there buried treasure? Or some kind of secret?”

Buried treasure, indeed! Treasure for the _Muse_! “The journals _are_ the treasure.” Pine Tree nods at Bill’s words.

Sensing it is now the right time, Bill hands the book over, laughing in a way he hopes sounds more pleasant than cruel. It wouldn’t do well to make fun of the little scholar he intends to manipulate.

Pine Tree is already flipping through the pages, devouring the words in a way that is strangely, horribly familiar. Bill hasn’t dreamt of that boy in _years_ , though. The stirrings of heat and anger make him choose to ignore those memories. His mindscape is for him to control, and he chooses the memories to replay. “You want me to translate this?”

Mabel is bouncing with excitement as well. “Adventure! Adventure!”

“ _And_ we’re going to travel on a hunt for the other journals?” His eyes are sparkling in a way that makes Bill soften unwittingly.

He holds out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Pine Tree’s fingers are stained with ink. He reaches out, then pulls his hand back. “Just who are you, _Bill_?”

Bill bows just enough that he’s on eye level with Pine Tree, grinning. “Just a humble researcher, with big dreams.”

 _"Humble."_ Though he looks unsure, the encouragement from his sister seems to solidify his confidence. Mabel nudges her brother forward with a smile. _Maybe we can pay for the library damages_ , she says, meant for Pine Tree's ears only, but Bill's observation skills are excellent. Pine Tree flushes pretty pink at that. And his touch is electric, when their hands connect, his palms soft and grip delicate. “I’m Dipper.”

He’ll break under the right pressure.

“Interesting,” Bill says, for lack of anything better to say. His mind spins. ‘Dipper’ is too unique of a nickname, so it can’t be a coincidence.

“Because his real name is _Mason_!” Mabel volunteers, sticking her tongue out at her brother.

“Mabel!”

Dipper looks up at Bill, face a bit flushed. “ _Please_ don’t call me that.”

“I see.” Bill’s smile is genuine at this information, and he knows it’s his cruel smile, though he’s sure these twins don’t know any better. He thinks of the boy with the gold-painted skin, the wide brown eyes lined with charcoal. “Mason.”

The second journal, once they find it, will bring back Stanford. And Mabel has unknowingly brought him the _perfect_ sacrifice.

Dipper hugs the journal to his chest. From the look on his face, it appears he has noticed Bill's less-than-friendly smile. “So, umm, when would you want to do this?”

Bill’s grin is sharp as he leans down and closer to his face. The sun is starting to set, the sky’s orange bright enough to highlight the details of Dipper’s face. He can see the freckles of the constellation birthmark peeking out from under his bangs.

“How’s tomorrow, _Dipper?_ ”

* * *

“Mister Ford! Lord William!” The man looks between the two, curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Bill glares at the dark lines painted around them, the way the charcoal swoops over his eyelids and highlights what _should_ be a boring brown. “Are you working on the portal today?”

He’s intelligent, from what Bill has learned from Stanford, picking up on explanations easily and adding his own perspective. It could be useful for their work, if he were anyone else.

But he’s the king’s whore. He’s young, nearly a decade younger than Bill, who is already a decade younger than Stanford. His body is dusted in gold and painted in black symbols, decorated like a pathetic little art piece as he parades around nearly naked, oblivious (or purposefully manipulative) to Bill’s discomfort. It is well known he is not to be touched, and the perfect designs on his body are only to be defiled by his master, the king.

Though Stanford has the patience to work with— _teach_ , Bill insists, because the king doesn’t want his little whore educated, and this idiot doesn’t _know_ anything—this man, Bill is always frustrated at his presence more than anything.

He distracts Stanford from their work (certainly not _Bill_ , who can _definitely_ keep his eyes away from a pretty little something), keeps Stanford’s attention away from Bill, from what they can accomplish _together_ and with _out_ —

“Ah, Dipper,” Stanford glances up from his notes, giving him a small smile, “what did I say about the portal?”

“Sorry!” He’s so excitable around Stanford, ready to discuss the scientific theories he’s snuck in the library. Bill has wanted to report him for illegally reading, but he’s sure that patience will lead to something useful, soon enough. Stanford would never let him hear the end of it if his _precious little protégé_ is killed.

“Careful, Mason,” Bill hums, leaning back against the stone wall of Stanford’s study.

“Oh, but my king is still in the bedroom, he wouldn’t”—Bill snorts cruelly, and the horrible, splotchy red blush that blossoms on the whore’s face makes the undignified behavior worth it—“a-anyway, I was looking through your equations. I think you could try. . .”

Bill stands aside and lets the whore talk, listens to the _unfortunately_ sound theory that he suggests. So the whore has been _studying_ when he’s not busy being fucked. Stanford scribbles the suggestions down, visibly pleased at his young apprentice.

“What do you think, Bill?” Stanford taps his charcoal to his cheek. “He’s onto something.”

The whore blinks at Bill, long lashes to freckled cheeks, and something painfully, deliciously, horribly _hot_ pools at Bill’s stomach. “Yes, he is,” he admits through gritted teeth, but he forces himself to smile in his usual charismatic way, watching as the man brightens at the praise.

Bill just wants him to leave. Instead, he invites himself to sit at Bill’s desk, sitting delicately on Bill’s chair so he doesn’t leave smears of paint anywhere, working on miscellaneous projects Stanford hands to him.

Time passes slowly, and Bill watches as he works, watches the bones in his spine as he moves, the soft curves of his body when he shifts positions.

Eventually, Stanford leaves at the king’s call, required to strategize for the upcoming war, needed for his magic more than his scientific knowledge. He presses a quick kiss to Bill’s cheek, the slightest of blushes on his face, then teleports away without thought. He’s always more distant when the whore is around, like he doesn’t want their secrets reported even though he’s the one trusting an outsider with too much.

Bill wants to follow Stanford instead of stay, eavesdrop because he can’t trust _anyone_ , but more than that he can’t trust the whore alone with their work, doesn’t know what he will do to destroy it.

He licks his lips, breaking the silence. “You want to work with us.”

Large brown eyes turn to look at Bill, the soft scraping sound of his charcoal to paper pausing. “Is that alright? Your work with Mister Ford is going to change so much. And I think it could be life-changing if I could help.”

It isn’t _alright_. He’s invited himself where he _clearly_ isn’t wanted, interrupting valuable work and requiring lessons in some of the most basic concepts. And while he works, he _has the nerve_ to look like—

“Do you think it’s strange that only Stanford has magic?” he tests, trying to keep his annoyance hidden.

“Isn’t that the theory behind the portal? There has to be another dimension where magic is rampant.”

“That _is_ the theory.”

His eyes sparkle. “Maybe the Dipper in that world isn’t. . .” A slave. An orphan with the mark of the gods emblazoned on his forehead, his twin not bearing the same mark but kept alive to be _used_ one day, so very favored by the king, both of them raised in the palace for the sole purpose of _entertaining_ the king.

“Why are you so eager to betray your _master_?”

Bill notices the charcoal falls from his fingers, smirking. “I-I. . .” He knows the whore doesn’t like his master. He’s seen the wide-eyed looks the whore directs at Bill, the flush of his cheeks, the flame so clearly burning for the young scientist working with his dear _Mister Ford_.

It could be charming, if Bill didn’t find him a burden, a child wanting more than he deserves.

“Mason,” Bill says, watching as the whore frowns and bites his lip.

“I, umm, could you call me Dipper, actually? Mason is. . . what my master calls me.” He looks a bit sheepish. Bill ignores the request, placing a hand on the whore’s shoulder. Gently, because the whore is not to be touched by anyone except the king. He sucks in a breath, glances up at Bill’s eyes. “You—we shouldn’t. . .”

Bill's mind flashes to an unbidden place, a dreamscape of thoughts he only entertains in the dark hours of night when he is utterly alone, thinks of how he could throw this whore onto silken sheets so easily, how he could be the one destroying the beautiful painting that is this whore’s skin, spreading his legs and ravaging him—

He imagines leaning down, their bodies against each other, the soft press of the other’s tongue against the seam of his lips.

(He’s _perfect_.)

He imagines the soft moan that would escape such pretty painted lips, and it’s enough to make Bill _jolt_. He catches himself as his fingers are tugging at the cloth covering the whore’s hips.

His heart hammers in his chest, heat burning his cheeks, his stomach, his entire _being_.

And then, before he can give himself a moment to think and regret it, Bill _drags_ his fingers down the lines drawn so delicately on the whore’s arm, watching the horror in those large brown eyes.

Bill smiles cruelly, through something begins churning in his stomach, hot and horrible. He can’t tell Stanford about any of this. He can’t entertain thoughts like this about the king’s whore, not when Stanford wants him to— “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mason?”

He nods quickly, far too intelligent for his own good. “Can I—”

“No.”

The whore grabs his notes and dumps them on Stanford’s desk, scurrying from the room. The smudges on his arm stand out so starkly compared to the perfection that is the rest of him. No one will fix the paint on the whore’s body, as it is no one’s place to disrupt the natural order of things. It is to be expected. Bill can still imagine the sweetness of his lips.

When Stanford returns he is once again proud of the whore’s work. “We can get so much farther with his help, Bill! Think of what the three of us could do!”

Bill refuses to do so. This is _his_ project with Stanford. _They_ will create the portal, and Bill will travel to the alternate dimensions _without anyone else_. A third person, especially one so eager and so curious (and so enamored with him, what an _idiot_ ), would be nothing but trouble. It will be hard enough toying with and eliminating Stanford.

But that night, he purposely stands at the end of the hall to the king’s quarters, listens to the loud sounds of skin against skin, of the wanton gasps and screams of the whore as he is reminded once again of whose slave he is. “No one else _touches_ you, Mason!”

“Ma-Master!” The sound makes Bill swallow, shut his eyes tightly. He shouldn’t be listening, but. . . “I was _clumsy_! I fell and did—” _Did this to myself_. Sure.

“No one! Touches you!”

"I—”

"I. Don't. Care!"

Mason.

He shivers, unable to stop his mind from painting the image of the whore so small underneath his master, freckled cheeks stained with soft tears, constellation birthmark gleaming in the moonlight. _Bill!_ he’d gasp instead. _Bill!_

Oh, Bill hates him so very much.

* * *

Dipper doesn’t dream that night; Bill awakens, frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very, very, very loosely based on "The Mummy", so you'll see some aspects of similarity (ex: bookshelves falling like dominoes, no harm ever coming from reading a journal, a sprinkling of past life romance). This is obviously very much not set in Egypt, and there are unfortunately no mummies and much less action due to my limited writing skills. Nonetheless, I love that movie and I love billdip, so this fic is going to be _something_.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts!! I've had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I have sooo many ideas for this story
> 
> talk billdip to me on [tumblr](http://ssuppositiouss.tumblr.com)!


	2. don't feel hysteria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of blood

They spend several hours plotting their course, another few hours more saying their goodbyes (which was really just Dipper telling the Headmaster he’d be taking a break and ignoring the look of _relief_ on the man's face, to be rid of the clumsy, overeager researcher) and packing their bags. The next day they begin their excursion by ship, traveling down the river that splits old and new Gravity Falls.

They have one of the smaller rooms, in a rejected corner of a boat with much less people than Dipper would expect.

The three are in a small cabin with one bed and one sofa, due to lack of finances for a better deal, a result of planning a trip so last minute they had to take all that was available. It’s more than a little cozy, barely enough space to walk from the bed to the sofa, a short hallway with a mirror leading to their shared bathroom. The walls are decorated with empty frames, and there is a small window to let in the afternoon sunlight. Their room is lit with candles rather than electric lights, but Dipper supposes they have to take what they can get, and on the ride back after finding the other journals and exploring Stanford's old research, maybe they can splurge on a more luxurious place.

It’s worth it, Dipper thinks, because the discovery of Stanford’s missing work would _finally_ prove to the community that he’s good at history and exploration. And if he can decode Stanford’s work, that’s more than enough proof he’s qualified to go on future digs, to write his own textbook, to inspire awkward, aspiring researchers like himself.

He’s more than the clumsy undergraduate disliked by most of his peers.

He just. . . needs to prove it.

Unlike Dipper, a student with so much to prove, Mabel is a successful artist, already designing fashions under someone else’s name. It pays well and is something she enjoys, and Dipper is proud of her. She also paints and decorates for people throughout Gravity Falls, a free spirit who always returns to her family, her roots. She’s supportive of Dipper, through it all.

He sends her a soft smile she doesn’t notice. She’s pausing friends, a social life, a successful career, to help him on what could potentially be a very long (but hopefully not fruitless) expedition. She’s the best sister anyone could dream of, and he’s so lucky he has her.

Who knows what they’ll find? Mabel is much stronger than he is. She and Bill will be leading him around, so he doesn’t bump into every hidden trap Stanford may have left behind to protect his work.

He tries not to think about accidentally falling face first into another wall. Just that day, he’d nearly fallen off the platform leading onto the ship, centimeters from landing in the water before Mabel caught him.

Dipper settles on the bed with the journal, scribbling his translations onto a separate page, trying to contain his sounds of excitement after every new discovery (especially after Mabel joked about how gross it was for her to hear).

_I am very lucky to have found a Muse who understands these theories so readily! He is so very helpful in all of my ramblings, offering his own input every evening after we—_

“I guess I’ll take the sofa, then,” Bill says, plopping onto said sofa and spreading out his long limbs.

_The presence of these creatures in a world so plain leads me to believe there is something else out there, another dim—_

“Logically,” Dipper interrupts, looking up from the journal and narrowing his eyes, “where else were you going to sleep?”

Mabel is arranging their bags, but she glances at Bill. Dipper catches her glimpse and frowns. He’s well aware that Mabel finds Bill attractive—he’s also thankful that her more aggressive flirting tactics have toned down since their early teenage years, secondhand embarrassment always getting the better of him despite Mabel’s confidence leaving her with more dates than rejections—but he’s pointedly ignoring the signs Bill shows of reciprocation.

Bill is. . . _striking_ , for lack of a better word. He towers over most people, well over six feet tall, and he dresses like he’s meant to advertise fancy suits on the cover of a catalog. His hair is perfectly styled but falls over one of his eyes, leaving just one golden eye visible. With his dark skin, almost yellow hair, and sharp teeth in a wide smile, he’s a jumble of contradictions. Looking at him for too long can be dizzying. It _is_ dizzying.

Dipper understands why Mabel describes him as cute. He doesn’t disagree, exactly.

But there’s so much _more_ he needs to know.

As much as Dipper is thankful for Bill’s contribution of the journal, they don’t know _anything_ about him. He ignores all of their questions, brushing off answering with a careless, charismatic ease that Dipper can’t help but admire despite how frustrating it is to be on the receiving end of such brush-offs.

And sometimes he throws really, well, _strange_ , looks at Dipper. It’s like he’s laughing at Dipper for something, but Dipper doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.

Dipper bites his lip. If Bill is attracted to Mabel, he can’t _hate_ Dipper, right? He’s unfortunately accustomed to this treatment from his classmates at the university, so he figures it’s best to pretend it doesn’t affect him.

“You’re not sleeping with Mabel,” Dipper says with finality, redirecting the conversation and meeting Bill's piercing golden eye.

“I was going to sleep with _you_ , obviously.” Bill smiles in that strange way again, like he thinks Dipper is worth less than the grime on the underside of his shoes. The look he directs at Dipper makes him look away immediately, stomach churning in discomfort.

Dipper can’t stop his sarcastic, “ _Thank you_ , hope you’re ready for a night of—”

Mabel throws a sweater at each of them, interrupting the budding argument. “Bill, thanks for taking the sofa. Dipper, of course you and I are sharing the bed.” She smiles, easing some of the tension.

Dipper sighs.

Bill slips back into his charming persona easily, standing and gravitating toward Mabel in a single, graceful movement. “Want to check out the food, Shooting Star?”

His arm slides around Mabel’s waist as he leads them toward the door. Her height slots together with Bill’s so perfectly, the top of her head right around Bill’s shoulders. "Yes!"

Mabel’s blush is obvious, and her giggle makes it clear that a meal with Bill is not unwelcome, so Dipper doesn’t bother to fight them on this, turning his gaze back to the journal and his messy translation.

Since he couldn’t sleep the night before, nerves getting the better of him, he’d skimmed through most of the work. His written translation is only about twenty pages in—Stanford’s journal is littered with illustrations, theories about what he’d seen in Gravity Falls, ideas about how to marry magic and science together to create something previously unknown. Dipper can see the beginnings of the portal taking shape in Stanford’s writing, and it’s mesmerizing to follow.

The corners of the pages are dotted with ciphers, his equations hidden in the images he's drawn. The pages are more than a straightforward diary entry—they are layers and layers of secrets and stories _begging_ to be unraveled.

From the journal entries alone, Dipper knows this adventure is going to be rigged with traps and riddles. He’s more excited than ever.

“When did you meet your Muse?” Dipper wonders aloud, scribbling his own theories into his notes. “Where did he come from?”

_I worry that the king is suspicious of my relationship with my Muse; it is unusual for a Lord such as myself to spend such time with a servant. But the king is not aware of the magic within my Muse. I plan to cast an amplifying spell, so his and my magics will be all the more powerful. If we keep this up, we can perhaps intertwine our power and the portal can be more than functional. Perhaps that will raise his social standing to Lord as well. He seems rather unhappy, but with the implementation of. . ._

There is no literal translation for the next portion, and Dipper struggles to pronounce the sounds that symbols create. Is this the amplifying spell? Or something else?

He jots down his thoughts, what he thinks the pronunciation would be. He’ll discuss these ideas with Mabel, later. She has so much creativity that she can probably theorize something so out of the realm of possibility that it would likely be true.

 _Does magic still exist in our world?_ Dipper wonders. _Or are we in a world on the other side of the portal?_ He wonders if reciting the spell would _do_ something.

“Triangulum. . .”

He finds himself skimming the next few pages rather than translating, eyelids heavy and head lolling to the side as he falls asleep.

* * *

Mabel seems happy to talk about things other than the journal or Bill’s history. It gets a bit exhausting coming up with excuses and cover stories every time the twins—mainly just Dipper, with his paranoid glances and pouting lips—direct pointed questions at him. Instead, he and Mabel chat about the general obliviousness of the townspeople of Gravity Falls, the ugly décor of the boat, the pathetic food options they have.

She’s much subtler than her brother when it comes to digging his story out of him, and he can’t help but admire her for it. He has pretty _amazing_ social skills, too, after all.

“I’m not from Gravity Falls,” she says, crossing her legs and staring at the menu. “We’re actually from a southern town, Piedmont.”

The restaurant has a grand total of three appetizers, three dinners, and two desserts to select from. It’s not much of a dining area, a number of circular tables covered in gray table cloths, the lights rather dim to conserve on the ship’s power. There aren’t too many people surrounding them: a few old couples, some uninterested teenagers, a man in a red cloak.

Bill straightens his posture, smiling. How interesting. The Blind Eye have found him. “What brought you to the Falls?”

“I think I want the vanilla cake, with sprinkles. And extra icing.” Mabel points at the picture, and Bill shrugs. They’re skipping dinner, then. He isn’t particularly hungry, only making the suggestion in order to spend more time with Mabel and less time with her bothersome brother. “Dipper’s wanted to come here since he started dreaming about it.”

 _Dreaming_? How much about their past life does Dipper know, then? Is he aware of Bill’s identity and _lying_ about it? Playing the role of clumsy, oblivious researcher so he can _drag_ Bill down a second time? He wants to ask, but he knows that taking the conversation in that direction would dredge up more questions about himself. He also doesn’t want to seem too fascinated by Dipper or his dreams.

Dipper, after all, is not interesting.

“What brought _you_ here, then?” He smiles at her, more toned down than his usual smiles. She smiles back, twirling some of her long hair around her finger. He knows she’s an artist, a designer. Her schedule is less regimented than her brother’s, and she didn’t have as many people to notify when they decided to go on this last-minute trip. What has she given up for her brother?

“I just want to see where life takes me, you know?”

“Sure.”

He can’t relate. He’s always known his goals, has been planning for them since he realized his past and how he could use it to get out of his current pathetic life. He’s just needed the right means to achieve it.

"Where's life taking you?"

“Life took me to Gravity Falls.” A little bit of information won’t hurt. She’s unwittingly giving him a lot of information about their knowledge of past lives.

“You never wanted to leave?”

“I did, once.” He wants to leave Gravity Falls via portal, to enter a reality where magic is rampant. In his past life, he wanted to leave to a place where he wasn’t the weak servant forced into manipulating a mage for power, where he wasn’t attracted to the king’s— “I’m more interested in finding out the secrets of this town than leaving it.” Once he has his power and his portal, he doesn’t plan on leaving the Gravity Falls of his perfect reality.

That’s _leaving_ , technically. He grins to himself.

“But don’t you have a family you’re leaving behind? Me and Dipper do everything together!”

_“I never see my sister anymore. Not since the king. . .” Gold painted skin and pretty brown eyes are much too close to him, though he’s focused on writing his notes for Stanford’s journals. “Is Mister Ford your only family?”_

_“I wouldn’t call us family.” He wonders if this is considered an admission, forging a bond by confessing his story to a man of even lower status than himself. He’s_ pitiful _._

_“What would you call it, then?” He glances at Bill, more curious than anything._

_Master and servant. Research partners. Artist and Muse. Friends. Lov—_

Bill stiffens.

The man in the red cloak is no longer in the dining area, and Bill feels his composure slip. Hidden in his jacket is one of the weapons he brought for this trip. He shouldn’t need it so soon. The Blind Eye member must have decided that Bill either doesn’t have the journal, or that there’s a greater threat on the ship.

That’s just _ridiculous_.

Bill is the biggest threat they’ll ever face. He's the _last_ threat they'll ever face.

He doesn’t know how much they know, but he’s willing to bet they’re going to search the cabin. The cabin where a weak little Pine Tree is sitting around _waiting_ to piss off the soldiers carrying guns.

Unfortunately, Bill’s arsenal of spells is a little pathetic right now, and he doesn’t know enough to track and _hunt_ the Society.

“We’re going to have to cut dinner short.”

She pouts in an exaggerated manner, and Bill’s lips turn up in a slight smile. Charming. “We didn’t even _eat_ yet! You’re just like Dipper, distracted by nothings!”

Ignoring that completely _inaccurate_ comparison, Bill continues, “How good are you at, say, petty thievery?”

Mabel’s eyes light up, and she leans closer to him across the table. Her eyes are the same shape and color as her twin’s, but there’s a confidence in them that Dipper doesn’t have. She pushes her hair behind her ears, ready for action. “Define ‘petty.’”

Bill cackles. “I am _quite_ glad we brought you, Shooting Star.”

* * *

Dipper is forced awake by rough hands, hair tugged out of his face and upward, pulling him from slumber. His vision blurs onto someone with a red cloak. “Wha—”

He jolts back to reality when he sees a gun pointed at him, scrambling backward on the bed. Is this some kind of joke? Is he still dreaming?

“M-Mabel?” he calls out weakly. “Bill?” he adds, as an afterthought.

At the lack of response, he remembers that Mabel and Bill left for food some time ago and are likely still out together. He isn’t sure how long he’s been sleeping, but it can’t have been too long, if neither of his travel companions have returned. Unless Mabel and Bill have their own reasons for staying elsewhere. . . Weird feelings churn in his gut.

“Hand over the journal.”

His head pounds with the headache that accompanies such an abrupt awakening, and he’s a bit dizzy as he realizes the journal is underneath him, from the way he’d fallen asleep. He _finally_ got his hands on this journal, he’s not giving it up without a fight.

He didn't realize so many people were invested in Stanford's research.

But enough to want to _hurt_ him for it? Why?

He glances around the room. There isn’t much he can use to fight back, nowhere he can hide. It’s a small room on a small ship, after all. There’s the bed, their suitcases, the sofa. There’s the mirror off to the side, the door leading into the bathroom. He can either run to the bathroom and lock himself in—not a good option, since this red-cloaked gunman can just shoot the door down and kill him, and that really isn’t on Dipper’s list of plans for the night—or he can attempt to leave the room entirely and find Mabel and Bill.

But if he does that, then there’s the possibility of getting too many _innocent_ people involved. What if someone else gets hurt? What if he directs the gunman to Mabel on accident?

He freezes. What if there are more people like this one, and they’re already hurting Mabel?

He needs to get out of here. Mabel—

“Put the gun down,” Dipper tries, using one hand to grab the journal and the other to clutch his pen. It’s the only weapon he can use for now. Surely he can figure this out.

The gunman, of course, doesn’t listen to Dipper, instead pointing his weapon and making it _click_. The sound makes Dipper squeak.

“Oh gods, I, uhh,” his voice breaks, “don’t _have_ a journal?” His palms start sweating, and he wishes, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time, that he has some of Mabel’s confidence. Maybe if he could lie better, or if he were stronger. . .

“We’ve been watching Cipher since he first stole it.”

“What?” Cipher? Dipper’s thoughts begin to race. Does he mean _Bill_? Did Bill _steal_ the journal? He said he’d _found_ it.

He and Mabel really don’t know _anything_ about Bill.

Paranoia and fear continue to bubble. As the gunman comes closer, Dipper makes the rather stupid executive decision to rush forward. He throws his full weight at his attacker, causing him to stumble but not fall. As it isn’t enough, he decides to use the pen to blindly stab at the gunman’s eye. He hears the gun go off, and his heart beat slows.

Where did the bullet go?

He doesn’t feel any pain (oh, thank the gods, thank the gods), but he does hear a ringing echo as his head continues to pound.

Something above him shatters, glass scattering around them and cutting Dipper’s hands, and he clutches the journal to his chest tightly as he rushes to the door. He ignores his surroundings in favor of focusing on his escape.

“I can’t believe that worked!” He’s prouder of himself than he’s been in a while. Nothing ever works when he tries! He throws the door open.

Now to find Mabel!

The figure in the red cloak towering over him in the doorway reminds Dipper never to get cocky again.

He’s never felt so small. And he isn’t even _short_!

“H-hi, there,” Dipper says, taking a step back. “D-don’t suppose you’re looking for the guy next door?”

“No.”

Something heavy clobbers him on the head from behind—maybe he should have checked that he actually _incapacitated_ the first guy, but Dipper's never been in a fight before so he thinks he has an excuse—and his vision goes white as he stumbles backward. He tries to keep the journal clutched tight in his arms, but the gunmen are on him and prying his fingers off the book one by one.

“Why are so many people _involved_ now?”

He tries to kick them off, managing to get someone’s face if the sound of something crunching and the pained grunt are anything to go by, but a swift kick to his abdomen leaves him breathless and nauseous.

“We should have killed Cipher before he involved this one.”

“Get off!” Dipper swings his free arm recklessly, catching something on his rampage, only slightly pleased with himself before someone squeezes his left arm and twists it back. “Oww!” Pain blinds him, and tears sting his eyes.

Someone kicks his stomach, hard. _Gods_ , it hurts so much. “At least this one’s easy to—”

He hears the door swing open again, they kick him _again—_ it's like they're taunting him, reminding him of all his weaknesses—and then gunshots fire consecutively.

One of the men lands on top of Dipper, and something hot and sticky seeps into his clothing. Oh _gods_ , is this, is this _blood_? Dipper bites back his shout. Another shot fires, and the man on top of him remains unmoving, body heavy and stifling as Dipper tries to catch his breath. The weight gets heavier as something else falls, and the acidic taste of bile begins to build at the back of his throat.

He hears a finger snap, a curse, another shot. The room smells like something is burning.

Oh _oh_ this is horrible, this is disgusting, this is—

He swallows back his urge to vomit, trying to shove the _bodies_ off of him. He feels light-headed. Everything _hurts_.

Someone pulls Dipper up by the collar of his shirt, and he starts thrashing before he’s unceremoniously dropped. “What are we going to _do_ with you, Pine Tree?”

Dipper tries not to gag at the sight of not one but _two_ dead gunmen laying in their cabin. He’s never been around anyone _dead_ before, and these two were just _killed_ , and by the man that Dipper and Mabel are _willingly_ traveling with no less! He pulls himself out of Bill’s grasp.

What kind of treasure hunt did he sign up for?

“Bill, d-do you, do you _know_ these people?”

Bill grabs the journal from the floor, shoving it to Dipper’s chest. Dipper grunts at the force. “Take better care of this.” Bill starts moving around the room, gathering their bags, rather unaffected by everything that just happened.

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to give them the journal!”

“Right.”

“Well, I’d like to see how _you_ ’d fare when _maniacs_ start shooting up the place.”

Bill smirks and gestures at the bed with his gun. Dipper nearly jumps when he realizes that the bed has caught fire. It must have happened when the first bullet shot, maybe hitting a candle? Or maybe when Bill came in and shot the strangers? His head pounds. Okay. Getting beat up and setting the bed on fire may not have been ideal. . .

But he has questions! Now is the perfect time to get answers!

“Is your name _Cipher_?” He stares hard at Bill, shuffling the blankets to put out the small fire.

Bill stiffens almost imperceptibly, but Dipper notices and latches onto it, questions bouncing around in his head. Why would Bill not have said anything? Does Bill know that they’re being followed? He must have known, he brought weapons! But who exactly _is_ Bill Cipher, then? Does this have to do with the journal? How did Bill really _find_ the journal? And how did these men know Bill had it? Does Bill _know_ these people? Why do _they_ want the journal? Is there something _else_ about the journal and Stanford and the Muse that Dipper needs to know?

“Wait!” Dipper grabs Bill’s arm, tries to tighten his grip in a threatening way. Bill shrugs off Dipper’s grasp easily. “They said they were watching—”

“Now’s not the time!” Bill snaps. He looks livid, golden eye blazing as he turns to Dipper. “Grab your stuff, _now_ , we can’t stay here.”

Dipper feels frozen, like everything is happening around him and he’s just, there. Useless. Unlike. . . Shoot! Mabel! How did he forget? “Where’s Mabel?”

“Stealing a lifeboat.”

It takes him a second to process. “You left her _alone_?” Dipper’s been wasting _so much time_ , lost in his own curiosity. He should have rushed to her immediately, what kind of brother is he—

“Unlike a certain Pines twin,” Bill directs a pointed look at Dipper, “your sister can fend for herself.”

“We still have to check!” He’s nearly at the door when Bill grabs his bruising left arm, pulling him back. He lets out a high-pitched yelp. _Oww!_

“She’s _fine_.” His gun seems more threatening than before.

“Ah.” Dipper nods, biting into his lower lip. Insults aside, he can’t keep his curiosity at bay, and as he’s shoving his notes into his journal, he begins again. “You brought a gun.” He didn’t notice Bill bringing any weapons, let alone a _gun_ to _dinner_ with _Mabel_. “You were with _Mabel_ ,” he continues, "and you brought a _gun_." He can’t leave them alone together anymore, he can’t believe he _let_ this happen!

Bill doesn’t deign him with a response, kicking the dead bodies lying on the cabin floor and rummaging through their cloaks for their weapons. Dipper squeezes his eyes shut, unable to stomach the sight.

There are two _very_ dead men in their cabin. And Bill is just. . . touching them and looking through their pockets _like this is nothing_!

“So how do you know. . .”

Bill gives Dipper the dirtiest look, and Dipper feels himself shrinking in that gaze.

He’s just so curious, he knows it isn’t the right time, but when is the right time? He gnaws at his lip. He feels like a child again, scolded for his clumsiness, his stupidity. He’s not likable, he’s just awkward, he’s—

He feels his lip split under the pressure of his bite, the bright metallic taste of blood hitting his tongue.

Bill’s gaze seems caught on that, and he smiles, an awful laugh escaping his lips. Dipper continues biting his lip, wringing his hands together. He doesn’t understand.

“The Society of the Blind Eye,” Bill offers, continuing to laugh to himself as he turns away to gather his and Mabel’s bags. “They’re the ones in the red cloaks.”

"Oh."

Thankfully, they packed light. A duffel bag each, so everything is quick to repack and carry again. Dipper hides the journal in his backpack and makes sure it’s secure. His fingers ache. Everyone hurts him so easily. He's so. . . _weak_. . .

Bill peers into the hallway, possibly checking that there are no suspicious figures, then cocks his gun and gestures for Dipper to follow.

 _Finally_ , he can check on Mabel!

Their footsteps are quick and light, and they abandon their short-lived stay in the cabin without a second glance. Dipper follows Bill into the hallway, and they sneak to the edge before they reach some stairs. Bill is stealthy as he leads, and then they’re up on the main deck, the breeze and sunlight a nice welcome from their previous dark accommodations.

Dipper is tempted to make a comment, but he stays silent. He’ll save his sarcasm for after they’re no longer in immediate danger. Bill points his gun forward again, and Dipper tiptoes forward.

The surprising grace in Dipper’s movements is immediately lost when he trips on a rug, stumbling into Bill, who remains unmoved as Dipper crashes into the wall with their things. “Oww!” He can't help his whimper.

The noise does not go unnoticed.

There isn’t enough time for Bill to glare at Dipper—there is enough time, though, for Bill to gripe about how _annoying_ clumsy people like Pine Tree are—before footsteps come bounding toward them again.

Bill shoves Dipper backward, and Dipper tries to bite back the pained ache from his fight earlier. He’s definitely going to bruise, but he tries not to think about it as Bill points his gun at the red-cloaked men coming toward them. He shoots easily, like he’s killed _before_ this entire escapade, uncaring of the way the bodies just. . . drop.

Dipper gags at the sight, squeezing his eyes shut and looking away.

The firing stops almost immediately after, and then Bill is laughing again as he tugs Dipper along. “Squeamish?”

His stomach churns uncomfortably. “You’re too relaxed.” With blood. With shooting people. With hurting others and _laughing_ at their expense.

Bill shrugs, an easy smile on his lips. He’s clearly in his element, and Dipper is at a loss for how to describe the man in front of him. Tall. Powerful. Deadly. Cruel. But he’s also—

“That’s not _normal_." Dipper shivers. "Who even—”

“Hey, we managed to evade attention!”

"But do you have to _kill_ them?"

"Should I leave them to catch you while you trip over every object in existence?"

Dipper can't help the slight flush to his cheeks as he stands taller and leans forward to argue. He trips over a lot of things, sure, but he isn't _that_ incompetent! "They wouldn't _catch_ me! And there's no need to _kill_ people who just want to learn!"

" _Learn_? You really think the Society is after Sixer's journal to—” Bill jumps to a different subject so quickly Dipper doesn’t have time to process, “You need to meet your sister at the lifeboat.”

“Huh? What about—”

Bill’s smile widens to near maniacal as he passes all the bags to Dipper. He seems _excited_ at this prospect of killing people. “I’ll be fine.”

Trying not to struggle under the weight of everything he’s carrying, Dipper frowns at Bill. Logically, he knows Bill will be fine—he’s probably better off with _out_ Dipper there to hinder him with his clumsiness, since he’s clearly so _annoying_ —but it doesn’t stop him from worrying, even though Bill is proving that he’s not the type to be worried about.

“We’ll wait for you,” he offers.

“Don’t.” Bill turns away. The breeze blows his hair. He looks untouchable, and Dipper has to force himself to look away. “I’ll catch up.”

* * *

Dipper stumbles off like the awkward little sapling that he is, weighed down by their luggage. Bill couldn’t care less about their things, only caring that the journal is out of the hands of the Blind Eye, safe from harm. He supposes it’s beneficial that he saved Dipper, since he's supposed to translate it. Might as well go all out, pretend the priority had been saving _Dipper_ and not the journal. Well. Appearances are appearances, and it would be better if they could change clothes and maintain a bit of comfort on their way to the old Falls.

He doesn’t know _how_ the brainwashing, murdering fleshbags of the Blind Eye managed to follow them onto this ship, though.

He’d been careless with the journal, but certainly not enough that numerous Blind Eye members would find him a threat and try to kill him _and_ traveling partners. He’d been on high alert when they were boarding, snickering when Dipper nearly fell into the water due to a loose floorboard (what he would _do_ to see Dipper soaking wet), laughing at how pathetic their accommodations were.

No one from the Blind Eye followed them. None had been around when he’d made the deal with Mabel, nor when he made the one with Dipper.

They’d had to have snuck onto the ship after it had already started moving. Annoying.

Maybe they were already suspicious of the great Bill Cipher, who had found Stanford’s journal in less time than decades of researchers could have. But then, who would think to check in a tree trunk for a hidden journal?

Idiots.

Still, there was something very, well, _unpleasant_ , about seeing Dipper in their grasp. As frustrating as Dipper is—and if he’d known how awful it is to have someone so clumsy as a traveling companion, maybe he would have waited around for another translator—he doesn’t _want_. . .

He doesn’t even think twice about killing them.

Now, especially, he has no qualms about hurting anyone from the Blind Eye. They’re the descendants of the old king’s guards, and they have a reason to be protecting the secrets of the journals. Bill just isn’t a fan of people purposely trying to _get in his way_.

He shoots with ease, watching them drop like the vermin they are, clearing an easy path for himself (and Dipper, _technically_ ) to the edge of the ship. He checks on the twins, ensures they aren’t paying full attention to him.

Dipper is checking that Mabel is uninjured—of course she is, Bill gave her a gun and the Blind Eye members were busy trying to steal the journal, the twins can’t _both_ be that incompetent—before he finally starts unloading their things into the lifeboat.

Confident no one is watching, he snaps his fingers. _Incendium_.

The bodies spark, but no flame catches.

Bill scowls. _What the hell_? It had sort of worked in the cabin, setting a pillow on fire and causing enough commotion that the Blind Eye members were distracted enough to get killed.

Dipper throws a quick glance back at Bill with his usual awkwardness, maybe unsure if he should get in the lifeboat or wait.

Ugh, Bill is _clearly_ fine without anyone worrying about him. No one _needs_ to worry about him. He’s more than capable of taking care of these untrained, unprofessional, descendants of Gleeful’s ‘soldiers.’ He throws a punch at one of them, swiping his leg and kicking the one next to him.

 _Clearly_ , his magic isn’t up to par. _Clearly_ , he’s going to have to do everything the old-fashioned way.

 _Clearly_ , Dipper needs to get his _shit_ together and translate the journal, so Bill can get his power back and sacrifice him.

As though the Blind Eye being around isn’t awful enough, the ship’s normal civilian population is just in the way. He doesn’t have enough bullets to just kill them, so he has to _try_ to spare them. But they keep _cowering_ in his path, blocking him from _easily_ shooting everyone. They don’t even know what’s going on and they’re just watching instead of hiding in their rooms like _responsible_ idiots.

Imbeciles. _Useless_ meatsacks.

Bill tosses another empty gun to the side, returning to his own gun as he reloads it with bullets. _Incendium. Incendium. Incendium._ He snaps his fingers furiously.

Nothing.

 _Nothing_ _!_

Like he isn’t irritated enough, Dipper has now elected to lower Mabel and the lifeboat to the water.

When he’s not _in_ the boat. Seriously? What is _wrong_ with everyone?

There’s hopefully no more Blind Eye members on the ship after this, but Bill can’t take any chances of waiting around. He and the twins are _begging_ to get murdered in their sleep at this rate, and Bill has _goals_ that involve soul resurrection and regaining his full magical abilities and becoming the leader of his own dimension. He’s not about to sit around and wait for death to suck him in.

He was already unlucky the first time.

They can lose their stalkers on foot once they ditch the ship. It’ll be slower getting to the old Falls, but it should be safer. Especially considering that he now has to protect the twins. Well, they have some redeeming qualities. Mabel stole a lifeboat _very_ easily. Dipper. . .

Well, as an added bonus, traveling on foot gives Dipper more time to translate the journal. Maybe this journal has something useful in it. He only remembers details of the second journal, but maybe he’ll see what Dipper has uncovered.

Bill makes his way to the edge of the ship, knocking a few more people out of the way. _Incendium_ , a snap of his fingers, a spark that does nothing.

“Why are you still here?” he demands, as soon as he sees Dipper standing there. He doesn’t have his bags with him, so they must be safe from harm’s way, protected by his stronger twin.

“Someone needed to lower the boat.”

“And you couldn’t do that _on_ the boat?”

“Would I still _be_ here if that were the case?”

That. . . is a fair point. But. "How am I supposed to trust you know what you're doing? You walked into a wall."

Dipper looks a bit hurt— _good_ , Bill thinks, he _should_ recognize that his clumsiness brings them all closer to being killed—but he glares at Bill regardless. "I'm not _stupid_."

Maybe not, but he's _Dipper_. “The journal’s safe?”

A quick nod. “Mabel has it. You-you’re okay?” Bill shrugs. Dipper’s probably worse off than he is, curled in on himself just a bit from being kicked around so much, but he’ll poke fun at that later. “How should we follow. . .” Dipper is lost in thought, probably running through theories in that over-analytical head of his. “Maybe there’s a ladder, or rope, or. . .”

An idea pops into Bill’s head, and he forces himself not to laugh, _yet_.

There is probably a better, more logical way to do this, but Bill doesn’t think twice about pressing his body close to Dipper’s, grabbing him by the waist and lifting him up like a bride—and it’s so familiar, holding him like this, he almost wants to pause and enjo—and tossing him off the side of the ship like _trash_.

He hears Dipper’s startled shout and Mabel’s surprised giggle before he hears the splash of Dipper landing in the water.

"What the! Bill!"

No longer able to suppress his laugh, he shoots the last person he sees watching him, uncaring of whether or not it is a member of the Blind Eye, then he dives into the waters below.

Oh, _shit_!

The water is much colder than he’s expecting, chilling him through to his bones, and his teeth chatter as he swims to the boat where Mabel is laughing and shaking her head.

“There was _definitely_ an easier way to join me,” she chastises as he nears her, but she doesn’t criticize him further. Her smile is bright, her eyes thankful that he did as he’d promised and protected Dipper. Bill Cipher doesn’t back out of deals. . . when they benefit him. He can certainly name a few times his deals were not mutually beneficial.

Dipper is shooting daggers at him with his eyes as he swims over. “A b-b-bit of warning, n-next time?”

“You w-want there to be a next t-t-time, Pine Tree?” Bill snarks back with a wink.

Dipper’s cheeks turn pink despite the cold. “I-in your dr-dreams!”

Alas, Dipper is unfortunately already a recurring character in Bill’s dreams. If what Mabel was saying about Dipper's dreams is true, then: “Already in y-yours, I’m s-sure.”

Before Dipper can reply, Mabel reaches for her brother, pulling him onto the boat with her. Dipper all but gracefully collapses onto the lifeboat, coughing all the while. Mabel wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. “Reunion sibling hug!”

“Pat pat!” they both exclaim.

“You okay?” Dipper mumbles, trying to see if she’s injured.

“Just dandy! How about you?”

“F-f-fine.” Dipper is shivering more than Bill (weak little sapling), mumbling to Mabel about what happened. “. . . He just _s-s-shot_ them, I didn’t kn-know he even had a g-gun. . .” Bill snorts. He can picture the wide-eyed shock of the Dipper from his past life. “. . . Th-they knew him, though. He called th-them the S-Society of. . .”

Bill rolls his eyes at them, climbing onto the boat—with _out_ help, thanks, because he isn’t some weakling like Dipper is proving to be a _second_ time—with ease. He starts wringing the water from his jacket. This outfit is unsalvageable now. Even if he leaves it to air dry, the river water is too disgusting to leave the clothes smelling nice.

He has a reputation to uphold.

He lets the twins talk some more, gives Dipper time to shoot his stupid suspicious looks in Bill’s direction. Dipper’s curls are dripping into his face, and his clothes cling to him in a way that makes Bill unconsciously lick his lips. He already knows _how_ Dipper looks based on his dreams, and he recognizes this Dipper is different from before (more annoying, more curious, more _stubborn_ ), but he still—

He coughs, forcing himself out of his delusions and memories. None of that, anymore. Mabel shoots him a concerned look. “Are you okay, Bill?”

Bill forces a practiced smile, looking for his bag to change out of his wet clothes. Of course he's okay. He's Bill Cipher.

“Spec _tac_ ular.”

* * *

Bill kisses Stanford, first.

They’re in the little home outside the city where Stanford grew up, the secret place they meet when they want to avoid the responsibilities of the palace, the expectations of the king.

Stanford looks at Bill like he promises the moon, and maybe he does, because Bill has _ideas_ , plans for where he wants to go and how he thinks Stanford can bring them— _him_ —there. Their collaborations are like music, duets they share, and it’s no surprise when, after escaping the eyes of a greedy king and his pretty whore, Bill acts.

It starts with a soft kiss, a confident one because Bill knows they both want it, and it moves into passionate whispers and promises of their future beyond this horrible place where Stanford has lost his twin and Bill is nothing but a low-tier servant.

A _Muse_ , instead of the creator himself.

They discuss their theories, Stanford drinking in Bill’s words like fine wine, no question in his eyes, no snark in his commentary. Just love, and trust, and promises Bill intends to take.

“Bill, I—”

“Sixer!”

Everything is hot, a flurry of cloth tearing and fingers touching, sweaty skin and heated fingers, backs arching and toes curling.

(Love?)

It feels wonderful, heavenly, a haze washing over his mind, a step toward his goal. It’s the first time for both of them, clumsy movements painting a clear picture of the mess that they both are. It’s not the last time for both of them, because Bill knows what he wants, and he knows what he needs to do.

“Bill!” Stanford groans, and Bill shakes the sneaking, empty, twisting thoughts out of his head.

Stanford is similar to yet different from the figure of his imagination. He’s sure Stanford is everything he wants, because what else could there be? He offers his mind, his trust, his body to Bill. And Bill reciprocates. He does. He should.

It is with great reluctance that Bill recognizes _something else_ churning in him when he and Stanford return to the palace, faces still flushed and bliss in their cheeks, and a stupid little whore smiles and hands Bill their pages and pages for the future.

Stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very good at action scenes, but I like showing the thoughts characters have for one another in the midst of all the action :') while this chapter isn't exactly the best, please let me know your thoughts! I enjoy writing this fic so I hope you're enjoying it, too <3
> 
> talk billdip to me on [tumblr](http://ssuppositiouss.tumblr.com)!


	3. never goes my way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new chapter warnings.

Mabel directs the lifeboat with the ease of a practiced boat captain, and Dipper tries to focus on that instead of his shivering, and the unhindered way Bill is _stripping_ out of his suit and into dry clothes—Dipper has eyes and he _knows_ Bill looks nice, even if his personality is pretentious and secretive and—and the rampant thoughts of his almost death, and the fact that reading Stanford’s journal has brought them on a mystery hunt that’s now _threatening their lives_ —

“You alright, Dip?”

 _Great! Perfect! Never better!_ Dipper hugs his knees to his chest and sighs. “Just waiting to ch-change into something dr-dr-dry.”

Mabel, knowing Dipper’s lack of coordination well enough, does not suggest that he try to change in the boat, instead nodding at Dipper’s explanation. He smiles at her; he loves Mabel so much. “The ship’s long gone by now.” Its shadow isn’t even visible on the horizon, as the sun is close to setting. “I don’t think we’ll get very far on the lifeboat.”

He nods. “Sh-should we make c-camp somewhere, then?”

“Oooh, camping!”

Bill hums, directing their attention to him. “We’re not really prepared for that.”

“Well, what else c-can we d-do?” Dipper frowns. “You b-brought murderous stalkers onto the ship, k-killed a bunch of people, then threw us into the w-water.”

“Correction, little sapling!” In his dry clothes, Bill’s shivering has stopped, leaving Dipper as the only one stuttering through his words. Jerk. “I threw _you_ into the water! Shooting Star was _savvy_ enough to get _in_ the lifeboat.”

Dipper glares at Bill. “It literally wasn’t b-built like that!”

“Now we’re stuck _camping_ , it seems.”

Mabel nudges her brother. “Remember when we were twelve and went camping, and you had that _major_ crush on Wen—”

“C-camping!” Bill looks more than ready to laugh at his expense. Dipper does _not_ remember his preteen self awkwardly trying to get the attention of a woman still _leagues_ above him. He definitely has no memory of his determination to never bathe or change his clothes. He has absolutely no recollection of his spurned love confession witnessed by several friends and family members. “Gotta l-love camping! Who d-doesn’t love a night u-under the stars!”

“Sure, Pine Tree.”

Bill’s smirk makes Dipper pout and press his chin harder to his knees. “Hey, h-how did you steal this boat, a-anyway?”

“How _kind_ of you to ask!” Mabel beams, ready to launch into a dramatic retelling of the saga. “Oh! Before I forget, here’s your gun back, Bill!”

Dipper can’t help his look of shock as Mabel _tosses_ a gun to their traveling companion who is _essentially a stranger_. “M-Mabel! Did you—”

“I didn’t shoot anyone!” She laughs at his expression, then adds nonchalantly, “I did punch a few people, though."

He should’ve tried harder to get out of the cabin; he left Mabel to fend for herself, to almost have to use a _gun_ , of all things! She likes the adventure, the excitement, but Dipper doesn’t want it to be a _requirement_ for this trip he forced her to take. “Wait, Mabe—”

“Enough about that!” Bill interrupts.

“But—”

Mabel bumps shoulders with Dipper, silently telling him everything is okay. “Back to the boat-stealing!”

He doesn’t know if she’s lying just to comfort him.

Mabel is strong, resilient. Dipper knows better than to underestimate her, but he’s not a fan of her being in dangerous situations due to his own inadequacies. “I guess. . .”

“I’m _fine_ , Dip. The boat-stealing, though! It’s a marvelous but sad story, about a shooting star girl”—she winks at Bill—“who _couldn’t_ finish her dinner date out of obligation to her poor baby brother—”

Dipper scoffs. It's going to be one of _those_ stories. “Five m-minutes!”

She sticks out her tongue. It’s a relief. She must be fine, if she can poke fun. “As she wandered the first floor of the ship, gun blazing, she saw an unattended lifeboat! But what could she do, it was surrounded!” Dipper’s eyes widen, and he’s about to scold Bill for wasting time grabbing their bags when Mabel continues, “This shooting star girl was a lucky one! As she was _kicking_ their _butts_ , a loud crashing noise redirected their attention.”

Dipper feels his face heat, despite the chill. That crash was definitely—

“Guess your lack of balance was useful after all,” Bill remarks, with false casualness.

“Oooh!” Mabel giggles. “That was _you_?”

Dipper scowls at the look she and Bill share with each other. “I h-hate you b-both.”

Bill and Mabel get along startlingly well.

“Aww, just messing with you, bro-bro. It was _super_ helpful you. . . _crashed_ into, whatever you crashed into. The Society people left me so I could steal the biggest, best lifeboat on the ship!”

"Heh." At least his clumsiness is helpful. Mabel shouldn’t have had to fight the Blind Eye on her own, though she was successful. Mabel would’ve been successful regardless of his clumsiness, though. She’s _Mabel_.

His bruises start to ache, reminding him that the rest of this journey is going to be painful. He sighs. At least it’ll be practice for his future expeditions, once he finishes decoding Stanford’s journal and discovers more of the secrets he left behind. The discoveries and publications will be worth a little pain.

The money to fix the library he inadvertently destroyed wouldn’t be too bad, either.

And maybe he’ll learn how to be a bit more coordinated after this. The thought makes him hopeful. No more incidents like the bookshelves at the library. Or the exams during his ancient civilizations course. Or at the tailors on Main Street.

“If the ship’s long gone,” Bill suggests, “maybe we should just we stop on land.”

Dipper glances at the setting sun, calculating the time based on the angle of the shadows being cast. As much as he’d love to stop on dry land and get out of his soaked outfit, it would be better to cover as much distance as possible before they go much slower on foot. Old Gravity Falls is still a bit away, if he’s remembering the maps correctly. Considering how long he’s studied them, he’s sure he’s right. “I th-think we still have a good h-hour or so of daylight. Should we k-keep going?”

“Hmm.” Bill seems to be appraising Dipper but doesn’t disagree.

“Righty-o, little bro!”

“By five minutes!” As she continues pressing the lifeboat onward, Dipper places a hand on her shoulder. _You’re really okay?_

She smiles and nods, elbowing him in the stomach. He bites back his grimace—if he tells her not to do that, then he’ll have to explain how he failed at subduing the Blind Eye where she and Bill had no problem, and he’ll have to explain his forming bruises—instead, he sticks his tongue out at her.

_How are you, Dipper? Really?_

_Definitely had worse_. Clumsy as he can be, he doesn’t think he’s hurt himself this much _recently_. No one’s ever kicked his stomach so many times.

 _I mean, if you’re sure_.

Dipper looks at Bill, then back at Mabel. He doesn’t want the focus on his injuries. If Mabel starts worrying about him, she might start teasing him for being the younger, clumsier brother. It’s all in good jest, but sometimes. . . “How was d-dinner?”

“Oh! We didn’t get to eat anything before the Blind Eye showed up.” Mabel pouts. “I didn’t even get to _order_ my cake!”

“My condolences,” Dipper says in mock seriousness, before starting to laugh. “I think I was just n-napping the whole t-time. Didn’t get m-much work done, unfortunately.”

“ _Bo_ -ring!” She looks at Dipper’s backpack, which he’s held to his chest protectively. “So how _is_ the translating going? I know you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Dipper flinches. Bill straightens in his corner of the boat, but he says nothing.

“Of course I _noticed_! You think I don’t see when my baby brother’s eye bags get _darker_ overnight?”

He swats at her. Five minutes but he _swears_ he’s the more mature one. “Not a _b-baby_!”

“You never sleep enough when you have something new to read!”

“Yes I do!”

“Tell that to your eye bags!”

“I get sleep,” he insists, but he can’t deny the dark circles under his eyes. Or the fact that he _didn't_ sleep the previous night.

“Hmph. You better get sleep tonight!” She gives him a hard look. “Or I’ll send _Bill_ after you!”

Dipper shivers again, but this time it’s not from the chill. Bill snickers, not even pretending to hide his eavesdropping. “How about you _don’t_ d-do that?”

Mabel stares at him thoughtfully. She’s very good at reading people, often much better than Dipper gives her credit for (and he gives her a _lot_ of credit, considering how terrible he is at socializing). “He isn’t _that_ bad, Dip. I think you’re judging him a bit harshly for one day.”

Dipper has always been the more suspicious of the two, and this is no exception. They don’t know anything about Bill. _Anything_. He brought weapons on their trip for a fight he seemed to know would happen, and he’s very secretive.

While Dipper appreciates that Bill found the journal, it’s still a mystery how he got it and why he _really_ wants everything translated. There has to be a secret behind everything, if a whole society is dedicated to preventing this from happening.

And he’s too strange of a character for Dipper to believe Bill wants the journal translated just for the fun of understanding history—Dipper _is_ that kind of person, so he _knows_. Bill judges Dipper too cruelly for that to be the case. He tries to communicate all of his concerns to Mabel through just his eyes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says to appease him. “But it wouldn’t hurt to _try_ getting along with him.”

It wouldn’t hurt, but Dipper is reluctant. It sounds pouty, and immature, and resentful, but it isn’t like _Bill_ is trying to get along with _Dipper_. He’s the charismatic type that can’t stand being with someone so nerdy. And Dipper wants to feel like it’s fine, but.

Dipper sighs. But _Mabel_ likes Bill, and Dipper will try harder for Mabel.

“ _Fine_.”

Mabel grins. “Now, while I steer this boat, how about _you_ tell me _all_ about your diary-reading adventures!”

“Yeah?”

Dipper brightens at the thought of getting to talk to Mabel about his discoveries. Bill is sitting away from them, not fully out of earshot, but Dipper will talk to him later, provide a shortened version once he’s finished discussing everything with Mabel. This conversation will be for Mabel’s ears only.

He still isn’t sure how he feels about working with Bill, doesn’t know if he wants to share all of his hypotheses with him, even if he is the one who brought the journal in the first place.

He digs through the backpack for the journal, flipping to the page where his notes are sticking out, his messy handwriting detailing numerous theories.

“I h-have some things to run p-past you, actually!”

“Yes! Mystery Twins!”

He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Stanford m-mentions this _spell_. . .”

* * *

When they finally reach land, the sun close to setting, Dipper oh-so-gracefully tumbles onto the dirt, groaning as he lands on his side. Bill snickers, climbing off the boat and extending a hand to help Mabel.

“What a gentleman,” she jokes. He flashes a grin at her.

Dipper glowers, sitting up and rubbing at his left arm. It’s already an angry red color, prominent against his pale skin. In a few days it’ll probably start turning the familiar purple of bruises.

“I could’ve helped you, Pine Tree.” Bill smiles, too wide and too bright. He _could_ have helped.

Of course, there’s something oddly satisfying about watching a Pine Tree fall.

“It’s f-fine.” Dipper sighs, grabbing his bag and standing. He looks a bit like a drowned rat. His hair has started to dry at odd angles, showing off his birthmark. His clothes are still clinging to all the right parts of him, delicate curves that a too-loose shirt would have normally hidden. Bill drags his eyes over the sight, his heart feeling oddly tight in his chest. “I’m going to change.”

"Pity."

No one hears him, though Dipper does manage a second of eye contact. “Unless you n-need me to help with anything.”

Mabel waves him off. They exchange a conversation through just a look—one that Bill can’t interpret—then Dipper scampers behind one of the nearby trees.

They’re in a secluded area, the dirt by coast clear of litter. Based on the setup of fallen logs, this area may have been a campfire for a previous group. The lack of garbage implies it’s been a while. Convenient for a first night, since for now there is no one left of the Blind Eye to follow them. Perhaps for future nights, they’ll hide in the shelter of the trees.

There’s no way the Blind Eye is giving up that easily.

The sky is bright orange, the sun very close to setting. They’ll need to set up while there’s still some daylight, though they don’t have much in terms of supplies.

Mabel drags her bag toward one of the logs, plopping down and digging for some pens and a sketchpad. Perhaps her lengthy discussion with Dipper about Stanford’s journal brought some of her own ancient memories to light. That could make for interesting conversation. And she reminds Bill of himself, finding ways to make the best of her life while being impulsive, charismatic, the center of attention. She offers more interesting conversation than her brother, at least.

“Shooting Star!” Bill brings his own things from the life boat and makes his way to sit next to her.

She pokes his nose with one of her pens once he's within reach. “You still have to share all your deep, dark, dirty secrets with me!”

Bill will be doing nothing of the sort. Secrets are for him to keep, weapons for future deals, for _just_ the right moment when he needs something. Secrets are his currency. People have a lot to offer when they’re desperate.

“Who’s sharing their deep, dark secrets?” Dipper returns with his damp clothes in one hand, journal tucked under his arm, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a plain red shirt, with short sleeves so his bruises are still very visible. He looks quite relieved to be out of his wet clothes.

Unfortunate, as Bill was enjoying the look.

“You forgot _dirty_ ,” Bill hints, watching as Dipper refuses his eye contact, the smallest of (pretty) blushes painting his cheeks. Bill stares at him until the blush fades, as Dipper moves to sit near his twin, bumping shoulders with her. They exchange smiles, another conversation passing between them without any words.

“Really?” Dipper starts arranging his things. The journal sits on his lap. “ _You_ ’re going to tell us about yourself?”

Bill grins, brushing his hair back so they can see his eyepatch, distracting them with yet another secret. “I have a lot of secrets, Pine Tree.”

“I’m aware.” Dipper has a lot of secrets, too.

“Oooh, we have so many questions, though!” Mabel starts ticking them off on her fingers. “What’s your job, why are you so interested in old Gravity Falls, how did you find the journal, what’s with your eyepatch. . .”

“How did you learn about Stanford Pines in the first place?” Dipper cuts in, one eyebrow raised.

“It hardly seems fair that I answer all your questions and you answer _none_ of mine.” Bill brushes off their questions, spinning the conversation in his favor. “I don’t know anything about _you_.”

“You never ask us anything.”

He has his own questions. He knows the basics of their current lives in Gravity Falls, and he doesn’t particularly care to learn more than that. In a short while, they will be long gone anyway. Mabel was not a prominent figure in his past life, but how far will she go for her brother in this life, if something were to. . . _happen_? What does Dipper know about his past life? How much does he know about Bill, about Stanford, about the journals?

How can he manipulate Dipper into reading and unwittingly _casting_ the right spells to give him his power back?

“You start.” Dipper narrows his eyes at Bill.

Tricking these two will be _easy_. “I’m a salesman.”

Promises. Ideas. Snarky little half-truths. He makes deals that benefit him, give him what he needs to survive. He sold the twins on helping him translate this journal and helping him find the others, after all. He’s very persuasive when he needs to be.

The promise of a secret is much too tantalizing.

“You. . . what?”

Dipper starts mumbling under his breath at the same time as Mabel asks, “What do you sell?”

He waves a hand, smirking. “You know. This and that.”

“That’s _barely_ an answer!”

His last deal involved a little bit of gold and a whole lot of magic. In his past life, he’d stolen and hidden enough that he could comfortably survive in this modern era, with clues on how to find the journal that could start it all. If only he could have inherited language abilities on top of his memories.

Though he dreams in the ancient Falls languages and his mind understands what is occurring during the dream, he can’t convey those thoughts or words once awake. So he’s stuck with these two.

Ideally, he’d be working alone. He can’t trust anyone.

He has a past life that _proves_ that trust is nothing but a game of lies.

“Maybe, but I want to learn about you two.” He looks from Dipper to Mabel, then smiles. He has more questions for Dipper, the little brat from his past, but he’ll get his answers in due time. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, and Mabel feeds him information without realizing, so long as he plays his cards right. She appreciates just the right things. “What brings you on this adventure?”

“Protecting Dipper, of course!” She pulls Dipper into a one-armed hug that causes him to inhale sharply and grimace.

“Mabel—”

“I’ll protect you, little brother!”

“ _Five_ minutes!”

Bill stands and starts moving their bags. Dipper and Mabel set up camp easily, since it’s something they’ve clearly done before. Bill doesn’t have experience with it, so he lets them do what they want. They didn’t bring supplies for something like this, so they use jackets as blankets and bags as pillows. They eat small snacks for dinner, the little they’ve packed.

It’s not nearly satisfying.

Mabel gathers kindling and Dipper starts the fire, and Bill contributes by watching them and making helpful comments as their setup becomes more of a true camp. They settle down. The sky grows darker and darker, the stars brighter and brighter.

Mabel finishes her sketches, and Dipper continues his work on translating the journal. They sit near each other, muttering secrets under their breath. The twins are close. Closer than they had been in the past, since there is no king keeping them apart. This could pose a problem.

He won’t let it.

* * *

Bill meets Stanford on accident.

He’s cleaning the library, as is his _responsibility_ for the afternoon, when the king’s mage bursts through the grand doors, no notice of his surroundings as he tears through the shelves to find the text he needs.

He grits his teeth, waiting until the mage has his back turned, and he waves his hand to clear the warpath leading to the scientific books, leaving the slightest trace of himself behind so it’s clear who is doing all this work. He's a little arrogant, but there's nothing wrong with that.

 _Tersus_. He needs more time to practice, more energy to transfer into his spells, but for being self-taught, he’s not too bad.

“I couldn't help but notice your magic signature,” Stanford greets, hands clasped behind his back as he nods at Bill. “Are you a mage-in-training?”

Bill holds back his snort. A mage-in-training is a dream if he could ever have one, but he’s a _lowly_ servant. The king’s mage is lucky he has time and research afforded to him. “Of sorts,” he says, smiling in a way that leaves him shrouded in more mystery than he really has.

Stanford seems to appreciate the possibility of uncovering a secret, placing his collection of books on the table at the center of the library and looking at Bill curiously. “How did you first discover your magic?”

There’s something strangely captivating about seeing the excitement in Stanford’s eyes, but Bill chooses instead to continue with his mysterious smile. His story is uninteresting, an ostracized boy in a desolate orphanage, magic spiraling from his fingertips as he set the place aflame.

“It’s a funny story actually, Stanford Pines.”

Stanford extends a hand. “What’s your name?”

“The name’s Bill.” He grasps Stanford’s six-fingered hand, a burst of warmth flushing his cheeks at the touch. Stanford blushes pink when their fingers brush. Well, well, well. “I’m a bit of a. . . muse.”

"A muse?"

 _Your muse_ , he almost says. But king's mage can come to this conclusion on his own.

Bill can _make_ his story interesting.

* * *

Dipper promised Mabel he would get sleep, but his insomnia is at full force. It’s to be expected, since they’re near a man with several weapons and a suspiciously _lacking_ background story, and Dipper has a journal with dangerous incantations just _begging_ to be translated (to be _used_ ). The firelight isn’t bright enough for him to read the journal clearly, but he focuses anyway.

Even though Mabel’s sleep-talking and Bill’s staring can be distracting, the soft sounds of the crackling fire and his pen scratching on paper are enough to keep him calm. There’s a slight chill in the sticky air, and insects buzz around him. He really does love the open night sky.

While the first portion of the journal has occasional spells encrypted through the pages and is centered on the different magical creatures of Gravity Falls, the middle portion highlights more about the portal Stanford had been building, about resurrection spells and spells that can switch bodies, spells that can genuinely _hurt_ people.

It is absolutely _fascinating_ : it’s darker than Dipper expected from Stanford, it’s insane to think this type of magic could be _real_ , that _magic_ exists in a world where someone like Dipper trips over his own feet and falls in the dirt on a regular basis. The ciphers are layered with sometimes five different codes to protect the mere _ideas_ from getting in the wrong hands.

(And Dipper can decipher the spells and _protect_ people from them, he’s sure!)

He loves it—there’s so much to discover and learn and _do_.

The darker incantations themselves are in Stanford’s second journal. Dipper wonders if they’ll find it in their travels, if these spells are a motivation to their mysterious travel companion.

No. Dipper shakes his head. He told Mabel he’d be less paranoid, more trusting. And, though she finds the idea of magic and dark spells enthralling—not to the extent Dipper gets _razzled_ , according to her, but enough that she is more motivated to help her _baby_ brother of five minutes—she doesn’t think the dark spells are related to this journey.

The spells may have been the reason the king had Stanford executed, but more than that, Dipper is eager to find the portal that was rumored and never found. Are the spells related to the portal? Is that what the Blind Eye was hoping to prevent by stealing the journal?

“Ready to share what’s turning in your _anxious_ little mind, Pine Tree?”

Bill’s voice breaks the soft sounds of the flicker of the fire, and Dipper startles, dropping the journal toward the flames.

Oh _no_!

Bill’s quick reflexes catch the book before it falls.

 _Thank the gods!_ Dipper barely has the time to exhale in relief before Bill clicks his tongue. “Should I really be trusting _you_ with something this valuable?”

“Who _else_ could you trust?” he snarks. “I’m the one translating it.”

Dipper tries to grab the journal, but Bill is all long limbs and high energy, and he stretches out of Dipper’s reach with ease. “Oooph!” Dipper can feel his abdomen protest at the way he twists, and he freezes to catch his breath. He really doesn’t want to see what colors he’ll be in the morning.

“Haven’t you _heard_ , Pine Tree?” Bill stands up, skimming Dipper’s notes as he walks a bit further from their little camping circle, and Dipper scrambles to catch up. “Trust _no one_.”

“Hey!”

“There’s a lot of flowery stuff about his Muse, huh?” Bill seems irrationally pleased at this, lifting the journal a bit higher, since Dipper has to work much harder to reach. Dipper rolls his eyes. “ _He’s beautiful, his mind so brilliant it puts me to shame, his face sculpted by the hands of_ —”

“What?” He throws a look at Bill that freezes him in place. “Hoping someone will think of _you_ that way?” He manages to snag the journal back in Bill’s distraction, jumping up and stretching despite his body’s complaints. He is going to be _very_ sore in the morning.

He arranges his notes back into their respective sections, holding the journal to his chest protectively as he heads closer to the trees. He may have promised Mabel, but he doesn’t think he trusts Bill enough to discuss some of the ideas scattered in the pages.

Not yet, anyway.

“Oh, believe me, Pine Tree,” Dipper glances back and feels a sudden chill; Bill’s grin looks almost menacing in the moonlight, “ _plenty_ of people think of me that way.” He’s so confident that Dipper almost doesn’t question it. Of course—

“Are these people _fictional_ , by any chance?”

“Ha! That journal’s the closest _you’ll_ be getting to something romantic, Pine Tree.” Dipper scampers out of the way when Bill lunges at him for the book again, now farther from their camp and almost _in_ the dark trees. He feels the brush of Bill’s fingertips and shivers at the warmth. “Using the _naughty_ bits of Stanford’s affair to get to bed?”

“There’s nothing _that_. . . raunchy,” Dipper protests, maintaining eye contact with striking golden eyes as he takes a few steps back. There were some, _raunchy_ bits, sure, but. . . He just doesn’t want Bill to ruin it.

Whatever Stanford felt for his Muse is so pure, poetic. Bill is anything but.

He can't drag his eyes away from Bill as they follow each other toward the woods, a game of cat and mouse.

“Didn’t Shooting Star want you to be nicer to me?”

Bill _had_ been listening! “Using my sister as a reason for people to be _nicer_ to you?” Dipper feels his back press against a tree. The campsite is still in view, but how far did he walk? He hadn’t realized how much he focused on Bill, hadn’t noticed where he was going. “Maybe _you_ could be nicer."

"Oh, I'm plenty nice, Pine Tree."

"Are you? How about you share some of your deep, dark secrets, then?”

“Secrets?” Bill grins, and he suddenly seems very close to Dipper. Too close.

Dipper sucks in a breath, can feel Bill’s every exhale, can feel the rushed pounding of his own heartbeat. He has to tilt his head up to even see Bill’s face, he’s so tall. The gold of Bill’s gaze feels intense, piercing, _heated_. He doesn’t know how a man could feel so dangerous and so attractive all at once.

“Uhh. . .” He feels dizzy again.

“You forgot _dirty_ , Pine Tree.”

“Bill,” he breathes, melting in his gaze. “I. . .”

A screech jolts them both back to reality—out of whatever trance Dipper’s found himself in, lost in this strange moment with Bill—and they both look into the deep of the woods, locating the cause of the sound immediately. Its eyes glow a horrific bright red in the darkness of the night, and its large teeth are ready to eat them as appetizers.

Dipper feels his heart rate speed up. Mabel is alone at the campsite! Instinctively and almost protectively, like he’s imagining Bill is Mabel, Dipper grabs Bill’s wrist and tugs him ahead so they both can run back.

“Mabel!” he calls, panicked. “Mabel!” He releases Bill’s hand so he can examine the journal while Bill runs ahead. “Wake _up!_ ”

He flips through the pages as he runs, glancing backward at what looks to be some kind of flying gremlin creature.

“ _Mabel!_ ”

The drawing on the page looks almost lifelike. _A gremloblin?_ he realizes, just as Bill shouts the same thought.

How does Bill know what a grem—

As the gremloblin shrieks, Dipper scrambles after Bill, stumbling but managing to catch himself as he runs. The noise has somehow not been enough to wake Mabel—she can be a heavy sleeper, which she insists has to do with Dipper’s muttering when he studies in the middle of the night, though Dipper insists _otherwise_ —so instead Bill is at her side, shaking her awake.

Dipper tries to read through the journal pages as quickly as possible, glancing between Mabel and the gremloblin. “Wings. . . neurotoxins. . .” It snarls at them, almost thoughtful. “Spikes. . .”

“Holy—” At least Mabel is wide awake now. “Dip, what did you do?”

“It wasn’t _me_!” His mind is racing. He hasn’t translated this far into the journal yet, and it’s harder to run through the words in his head when he’s trying to stay alive and make sure Mabel is okay and squint at ciphers in just the moonlight—

“Hey, you big meanie!”

Dipper is at the edge of the campsite, only a few feet away from his sister as she lures the gremloblin toward them. Oh, no. . . “Mabel, don’t!”

She throws her shoe at its face. The gremloblin roars, standing on its legs and towering much higher than the trees at the base of the woods. Mabel’s shoe flops to the ground pathetically. If anything, her action has irritated the gremloblin more. Each step it takes causes the ground to quake, and Dipper tries to keep his balance and read despite the dim lighting. “Water. . .” Why is this part encoded? Switch to ancient Falls lettering, then Caeser cipher, then Atbash. . .

“If you look into its evil eyes. . .” He glances up. “You will meet your great demise?”

“Now’s not the time for poetry, Pine Tree!” Bill stands closer to the edge of the water, and it appears he’s grabbed Mabel to pull her out of the gremloblin’s line of attack. Crap! He can’t focus so much on the journal if it’s going to put Mabel in danger, but if he doesn’t focus on the journal, then. . .

“No, I think it’s. . .” The gremloblin’s spit drips like rain as it snarls, jumping from its spot closer to the campsite, and then closer to the edge of the water. Closer to Mabel.

Mabel!

“What if we—”

“Avoid eye contact!” he exclaims at the same time as Mabel. He loves that she just _knows_ what he wants to say.

He feels a burst of confidence now that he knows Mabel is on the same thread of thought as he is, and he flips through several ideas in his head before— “Bill! Do you have a mirror?”

Despite the situation, Bill manages to shoot the most unimpressed look at Dipper. “You’re going to scare off the gremloblin with your reflection?”

“It would just need _your_ face, then!”

"Why do you need to go through my stuff?”

Dipper scowls. “Who _else_ would bring a hand mirror on our camping trip?”

Mabel manages to laugh despite the situation. Dipper throws a triumphant look back at Bill, assuming Mabel’s laugh is in support of his own quip rather than Bill’s.

The gremloblin bangs his fists on the ground, and spikes begin to grow out of its back. Dipper swallows, dashing toward Bill’s bag to look for a mirror. The creature glances at Dipper, decides it would be better to target Bill and Mabel—a meal of two instead of the pathetic sack of bones Dipper would taste like—and it bounds toward them instead.

“No!” Dipper pulls one of the guns out of Bill’s bag and tosses it aside, his heart racing so fast he can’t hear anything other than the blood rushing in his ears. He tucks the journal under his arm and runs toward the gremloblin, bag in hand as he tries to find a mirror. A hairbrush. A bottle.

Bill looks at the gremloblin and then at Dipper, then shoves Mabel out of the way, grumbling something Dipper can’t distinguish in the midst of everything else happening.

“Mabel!”

The monster grabs Bill and lifts him up, visibly squeezing him tight.

“Bill!” Mabel sprints away from the water and toward the gun Dipper abandoned.

“Hey!” Dipper drops Bill’s bag and starts waving his arms. The mirror flashes every time it catches the moonlight at the right angle. “Hey!”

Mabel manages to attract its attention better, shouting, “Don’t ignore us!” and holding up the gun. “You goblin!” She shoots a bullet at a random tree. There’s a hissing noise, the flapping of wings—vampire bats?—and the falling of leaves. The sound startles everyone, and Dipper stares at Mabel, wide-eyed. Her impulsivity scares him sometimes.

It provides the distraction he needs, and he throws the mirror upward and at Bill, so he can reflect the gremloblin’s gaze at itself since he’s closer to the giant gremloblin’s face. The mirror doesn’t go nearly high enough, and before Dipper can attempt to catch it, the mirror floats its way up to Bill, as if caught by a wind current.

What the—

“This better work, Pine Tree!” Bill directs the mirror at the monster’s eyes.

The gremloblin drops Bill, horrified by whatever it has seen, staggering back and into the river water. There is a sense of calm.

Mabel catches Bill from his fall with a wide grin and a dramatic wink. “Got you!”

“Ha! Thanks, Shooting Star.” She sets Bill back down on his feet, and he is quick to fix his appearance using the mirror in his hands.

“I should be thanking _you_!” Dipper can hear the slight flirtation in her voice. Seriously? They’re in the middle of something!

"That was nothing."

“But that could’ve been _me_ up there, and I’m not sure I could’ve caught Dipper’s throw—”

“Get back!” Dipper cries, flipping the journal pages until he reaches the warning in Stanford’s journal. He can hear the splashing, the low grumble of a displeased gremloblin. “Water makes it _worse_ _!_ ”

“What?”

“ _Seriously_ , Pine Tree?”

“I’m just the translator!”

“Can’t you translate something more hopeful?”

“I didn’t write this!”

"Why didn't you say something _earlier_?"

The gremloblin snarls, and, as if it had been holding back before, bat-like wings sprout from its back. Water splashes around them, drenching everyone and putting out their little campfire with help from the wind from the creature’s wings, and the monster flies upward and begins shrieking at them again.

Mabel shoots another bullet at the creature—but not to actually hurt it, Dipper’s sure, because neither of them could ever really _hurt_ a living creature like that—and Bill looks genuinely concerned. If they weren’t in the middle of a perilous situation, Dipper knows he’d be glad to see the normally so pretentious Bill Cipher looking a bit frazzled.

They all regroup into a trio, Mabel at the front and Dipper at the back, as he tries to find something, _anything_ that could be deemed a gremloblin weakness.

Translating is so stressful like this; Dipper is supposed to be the smart one, but this is difficult, and he doesn't want to admit it.

“Fucking. . .” Bill keeps muttering things, wringing his hands together and looking more and more frustrated. “Why won’t this. . . _Incendium_. . . _Denascor_. . .”

What is Bill mumbling? Dipper wants to remember it to research later, but he can't quite pick up what Bill's saying, and the situation calls for more attention elsewhere.

Bill spins around, grabbing Dipper by the shoulders. His golden eye, normally alight with mirth, seems genuinely frustrated. “Isn’t there some kind of spell in the journal?”

“Spell?” Dipper doesn’t have time to fully process Bill’s request—how would he _know?_ —before the gremloblin lands on the ground in front of them, causing the ground to quake and everyone to stumble.

Dipper manages to stay standing only because Bill holds him so tightly.

“Go away, you goblin monster!” Mabel shoots another bullet toward the creature’s head. It doesn't pierce the gremloblin at all, but the cry that comes from the monster's mouth makes them all cover their ears. "Take that!"

"Don't!" Dipper's warning is unheard, and the gremloblin is angered enough that it grabs her in both hands.

“Dipper!” She drops Bill’s gun as the monster starts flying upward.

“Mabel!” Dipper panics, nearly dropping the journal as he tries to keep his eyes on his sister while still finding something useful to defeat this monster. His palms are so sweaty the book barely stays in his grasp. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

“Pine Tree!”

Stanford’s journal is full of illegible scribbles, art drawn with so much detail Dipper would admire it on any other occasion, codes and ciphers meant to entrance the mind. He knows there are spells in the second journal, but they don’t have the second journal. The few spells in this journal don't mean much to Dipper now.

Bill tugs the journal from Dipper’s hands, flipping to a page with a picture of a triangle and a wheel. “Shout that! It looks promising!”

“What? But it’s— Why?”

Bill starts running toward the gremloblin, grabbing his gun from the ground and aiming carefully at the monster. “I’m taking this gremloblin down, one way or another.”

“But Mabel’s up—”

“Pine Tree!” It’s both a threat and a reminder.

“Ahh, umm. . .” Dipper stutters, trying to focus on just the journal and not the firing bullets, Bill’s incessant mumbling, Mabel’s screaming, the angry grunts of the gremloblin. Bill keeps muttering intelligible things, and it’s distracting, it sounds like phrases from the journal so everything is blurring together, he just needs Bill to be quiet. He needs to translate, needs to focus.

Quiet.

He tries to block everything out. One of Bill’s bullets hits its target, but the creature’s shriek and Mabel’s pained shout blend together.

“Hurry, Dipper!” he whispers to himself. The first cipher he tries doesn’t leave a pronounceable phrase under its first layer, so he tries again, then again, until it sounds like what Stanford meant, then, “ _Dominus ventium? Veneforis venetisarium_?”

Whatever Dipper says doesn’t do anything—he realizes too late that there’s more to read on the previous page, and he knows this is going to haunt his dreams for days to come—but Bill’s shooting and mumbling does what they need.

The gremloblin catches on fire.

Before Dipper can process what happened, the monster drops Mabel as it flies further and further up, shrieking all the way.

Bill catches Mabel this time, setting her back to the ground with more care than Dipper would have expected from him. The gremloblin fades into just a small speck in the large sky, a spark that blends in with the stars.

Suspicious as he is, Bill can’t be _that_ horrible if he can be so gentle with Mabel.

It’s eerily quiet. He could’ve lost Mabel because of his own inadequacies, he could have tried harder and read quicker and been better, should have done more to physically subdue the gremloblin like Bill and Mabel had done, should have translated and read the spell Bill had known and somehow suggested—

“Is it actually gone this time?” Mabel sounds exhausted but still cheerful, ever the optimist.

“I think so,” Dipper agrees, shooting a glance at Bill, who is wrapping a comforting arm around Mabel. They're comfortable around each other, moreso after this incident. They look content. But why did the gremloblin catch fire? How did Bill know about specific spells in the journal?

Why did he let himself get so distracted that this happened in the first place?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He has too much to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, friends;; I was focusing on writing my gift for the billdip10k exchange and was writing this more sporadically than I'd have liked. I'm not tooooo happy with this chapter but it's laying some groundwork for their slight slowburn shift from animosity to friendship (ohoho).
> 
> Hopefully it's enjoyable! Let me know what you like/don't like; I'm always looking to improve (and entertain, haha)!
> 
> (as always, feel free to talk gravity falls and billdip to me on [tumblr](http://ssuppositiouss.tumblr.com))


	4. take a shot and fall short

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: underage drinking (by U.S. standards, Dipper is 20), language, Bill being Bill

Despite his status as the king’s most prized whore, the man walks without pride in his title. He stumbles often, rubbing traces of his body paint on the walls and loudly getting punished in the midst of the night. He is a pathetic creature, a mess of freckles and curly brown hair, yet Bill is unable to drag his eyes away from the first moment he lays eyes on Mason. He watches the man’s clumsy movements without fail, any time they’re in the hallway together. He wonders if this inelegance is what entrances the king.

It is after silent weeks of observation that they are finally in the same room as one another, and it is Mason who speaks up.

“What are you reading?” The dark lines around his eyes emphasize how wide and bright they are, a brilliant brown that looks so very inviting. His voice is softer than Bill is expecting, a bit deeper too.

Bill snaps his book shut. Despite the awkward sense of friendliness, he knows better than to reveal too much to the king’s favorite whore. Who knows what trouble he could get into; learning spells is only for the king’s mage, and the whore is likely uneducated, prying into palace gossip to report back to his master. “Nothing of interest to you.”

His face falls, likely due to the lack of gossip he can pull from Bill. “I like the books about magic in our forests,” he offers, voice cracking on the word _magic_. He looks like he wants to sit down next to Bill, but he also looks uncomfortable, unsure if he should cross his arms to hide his body or just accept that he’s barely dressed. Bill resists his urge to laugh; he’s also a bit uncomfortable, near someone so scantily covered, so _appealing_.

He raises an eyebrow. _You can read_? seems like too rude of a question, but it is a surprise. Not unwelcome, though. What else does this man hide? “I didn’t realize the king allows his whore to peruse the library.”

The blush that stains his cheeks is quite visible down his neck and under the golden paint. “What I do in the day is not his. . .” He swallows, looks ashamed. “My master does not. . . watch. . . all of my movements, when he has other duties to attend.”

Bill laughs, his fake laugh, the one that sounds less cruel than his real one. “I doubt your master wants you to learn magic.”

“Definitely not.” Mason’s eyes sparkle, and he’s leaning close into Bill’s space, enough that he can smell the layers of paint, the slight tinge of sweat. “But have you met the royal mage? None of our records report any mage as powerful as he is. My master has been meeting him more frequently, but I know others can perform magic and I—”

“I’m just the bookkeeper.” Bill shrugs. “Taking a quick break.”

“That’s the fifth volume of a seven-book series of spells.” He reaches forward, tapping on the cover. “Interesting reading for a bookkeeper.”

Bill feels his mouth slip into a smirk, and he eyes the little whore in a mix of astonishment and interest. There’s more to him than his pretty face, it seems. “Is your master curious about his servants’ reading material, now? Perhaps you should report back to him.”

“We both know I’m not reporting anything.”

“Do I?”

“I _could_ have you reported for books one through five.”

Snarky. Color Bill impressed. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Can you perform spells, too? I know the mage Stanford is the most powerful because he _creates_ his own spells, but maybe—”

“Mason!” They both snap their heads toward the entryway of the library, where the head of servants is frantic, frazzled. “You’re needed at once!”

“What? But his meeting just ended, I can’t. . .” He sounds so distressed, Bill almost feels pity for him. It must be heartbreaking, to finally have intelligent conversation and be rushed back to the bedroom. “Right away.”

The servant does not touch the whore, as it is expressly forbidden, but he gestures toward the door. Mason will stumble on the carpet and muss up his paint regardless, but no one touches the king’s property without permission. “You shouldn’t associate with _the help_.”

Bill scowls, face flushing in anger as he stands, showing just how much taller he is than both of these other servants. A bookkeeper, and somehow he is considered _less_ than the king’s whore. They’re both orphans, both property of their _king_ , and somehow _Bill_ is the one deemed lesser. Bill is the elder, the more attractive, the more intelligent, the one with more power. “Of course not, _Mason_.”

“Oh.” Those pretty brown eyes trace his figure up to his face, and Bill watches the way the whore licks his lips, swallows. _Pathetic_. Just a needy little whore after all. Bill isn’t so weak to fall for such whims, particularly when everyone seems to find this whore is more valuable. “You can call me Dipper.”

“Mason!” The servant turns to Bill, the expression on his face fierce and displeased. “And you! Reading on the job, trying to _coerce_ favors from the king’s favorite!”

Mason reaches for the servant, then pulls back, because he is also not allowed to touch others. No one but the king. “No, it was me, I was—”

Bill doesn’t say anything, seething.

“We need to bring you to the king at once! His meeting did not go smoothly, and you were not around when he needed you, he’s going to have our heads! I’ll be back for you later, _bookkeeper_.”

“I’m sorry, I. . . It was nice meeting you.” He forces a half-smile at Bill before following the other servant in silence, glancing back only once before his face blossoms in a bright red blush. Bill glares at him all the while, his emotions bubbling and brewing inside.

His hand clenches into a fist, and, unwittingly, volume five of the series he was reading bursts into flame.

Nice meeting him. Sure.

One day, everyone will see. He’ll never be so powerless that a stupid little _whore_ is worth more than him, that talking to a whore leads him to punishment. Looking into pretty brown eyes should have never been a problem.

It will never _be_ a problem. Never again.

(He feels the whore’s eyes on him when he is whipped, and he wonders.)

* * *

Bill isn’t sleepy, isn’t ready for another dream of his previous life. He stares up at the night sky, at the stars that match the constellation imprinted on Dipper’s forehead, then turns to face his traveling partners. Mabel is tucked in a blanket cocoon near Dipper, fast asleep.

After the encounter with the gremloblin—Bill hasn’t seen a gremloblin since he and Stanford first encountered the one detailed in his journal, and they hadn’t fought it the first time, just documented and ran—they’d all awkwardly shuffled to change clothes, drenched by the spray of water. Their wet clothes hang over the side of the life boat, hopefully drying overnight.

He’ll attempt an _incendium_ if needed, but he hopes one won’t be necessary. He doesn’t know the spell for heat rather than fire.

Casting a spell may be too suspicious, anyway. Dipper hasn’t restrained his suspicious looks at Bill, though he melts, as Bill suspected he would, when he sees Bill’s interactions with Mabel.

She has a small stuffed animal tucked under her arm, a smile on her lips. She’s content, and Bill admires her for it.

He’d stayed beside her and talked until she was calm again, ready to return to the sleep from which she’d been interrupted. The exhilaration of shooting a gun and being in a monster’s clutches, right in the middle of the action, left her excitable—Dipper was hilariously horrified, but his personality is vastly different from Mabel’s and it shouldn’t have been a surprise—but she loved regaling her experience as the gremloblin _mysteriously_ caught fire.

“I don’t know _what_ happened, Dip, but maybe the spell you shouted actually did something!”

Dipper frowned at Bill upon hearing her words, and Bill knows he has some expert lying to do.

“The spell I tried was nothing like that,” Dipper muttered, more to himself than to her.

Bill will have to sway their attention elsewhere. They’re lucky his spells worked, and of course, always paranoid _Dipper_ needs to question everything.

It was so _frustrating_ to be so powerless, caught off-guard by a creature so much larger and so much _lesser_ than him! He had to make a show of sacrificing himself for Mabel, to win Dipper’s favor. If not for the little bit of magic Bill _could_ do, he knows they’d be dead.

Because inept, incompetent _Dipper_ can’t cast any spells correctly.

Clever as the mirror idea was—Bill will acquiesce that Dipper has, on _occasion_ , in the past and present, made a clever suggestion or two—it only succeeded due to the sheer luck of Bill’s levitation magic actually working to save the mirror from crashing to a thousand pieces at the gremloblin’s feet.

Bill is good at hiding what he can do, but there’s only so much he can hide when everything Dipper does is just so—

He takes a deep breath. Exhales. He’s the picture of perfection, calm and poised, not at all frustrated by his travel companion.

While Mabel sleeps peacefully, Dipper is still awake and reading the journal. Probably guilty because of his fallacies, trying to make up for them by translating what he couldn’t in the midst of a fight. He chews on the end of his pen as he works, his other hand carding his fingers through Mabel’s hair, providing comfort as she dreams.

Well. Since Bill’s bored and a bit of an insomniac, and Dipper is the only one awake, it appears that it’s Dipper’s job to provide entertainment. They have a lot to discuss.

He has a lot of persuading to do.

Bill rummages through his bag for the bottle of tequila he’s brought, to still have a somewhat enjoyable time on this strange trip. The fire highlights Dipper’s face in a way that makes Bill pause. He has such dark circles under his eyes, and so, so many freckles, a map of constellations on his cheeks. There’s a pleasant roundness to his face, a flush on the tip of his nose. He’s so intent on his translation of the journal, he doesn’t feel Bill’s stare until Bill clears his throat to steal Dipper’s attention.

“Aren’t you brother of the year?”

Dipper startles, then glares at Bill, cheeks turning pink as he snatches his hand from Mabel’s hair. “It’s been a surprisingly long day, Bill.”

“Not judging.” He raises his hands in mock placation, makes his way over to the log Dipper is leaning upon, sitting closely but not _too_ closely to him. “Just an observation.”

“R-right.” Dipper turns to the journal, then back to Bill again. He bites his lip, and for a moment all Bill can hear is the flickering of the fire, and all he can think about is how pink Dipper’s lower lip looks, how soft it would be between his teeth. What an idiotic thought. The kind of thought that passes the minds of weak little fleshbags. “Thanks for protecting her. From the, umm, Blind Eye. And the gremloblin.”

_“I can protect you, Mason.” He’s surprised at how serious he is, how much he means these words. He’d intended them as a lie, and yet. . . “You need not worry about the king.”_

_He’s so grateful, so trusting. “What do you need me to do?”_

_There are so many things Bill wants. He wants this man to leave forever, so Bill will have no weaknesses when he steps through the portal and enters a dimension where he is in command. He wants this man to walk through the portal with him when it’s complete, because there’s something about him that’s so. . . He wants, he wants—_

If getting Dipper to trust him means he has to play up his interactions with Mabel, there are much worse ways.

“Learn anything good?” he says, instead of addressing Dipper’s gratitude. He _should_ be grateful.

Dipper’s eyes light up at the chance to talk about his research. Bill is suspicious, of course. He knows Dipper is going to alter his translation, give him some sort of abridged version. Dipper specifically discussed parts of the journal with Mabel in a conversation not for Bill’s ears, mumbling just out of earshot when they’d been on the lifeboat. He knows something about Bill, or he is being purposefully elusive for some other reason.

Dipper just isn’t smart enough to manipulate Bill in either scenario.

“Stanford lived such an interesting life. He and his Muse would explore Gravity Falls together, and he took notes on all the unusual creatures they found. They all must still exist, if the gremloblin is anything to go by. I was thinking that if we pass through some of those areas on the way to—”

“Slow down, Pine Tree.” He’s like an excitable child, even as he leaves out the important, _magical_ portions of his story. Of all the personalities to get stuck with. . . Bill rolls his eyes. Dipper’s unending curiosity is apparently part of him no matter what timeline of his life. “We’ll pass by a few sites,” he concedes.

“Really?”

He’s so _expressive_ , Bill almost feels kind of. . . Disgusting. “Yeah, why not. Start your own journal, right?”

“Yeah!” Dipper bites his lip again. “So Stanford also talks about. . .” He glances at Mabel, then lowers his voice. “He talks about vampire bats, just as an example. Probably not the best creatures to run into, but it would be great to document in my notes. Are their weaknesses the same? How much have they evolved since Stanford’s day, if they’re not recorded anywhere else in Gravity Falls history? We could avoid the creatures like the gremloblin, but some of the others, like the gnomes, can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, right.” Bill smirks, then tries to tone his expression down to seem less judgmental. He doesn’t think it works, because he _is_ judgmental, but it’s hard _not_ to pass judgement over a high-strung nerd like Dipper. But he does ask some interesting questions. He always has. It’s annoying. It’s endearing. “You’re studying to be. . . a _what_ , again?”

“I want to be a historian and archeologist.” His eyes are shining at the thought. “I’ve taken the history courses, and I do a lot of research on my own,” he rambles, “I’m sure you figured that out from when we met. I’m still in school, but to be a renowned historian it isn’t education, it’s just a matter of publishing, which requires getting to _go_ on an expedition and excavating a real site and I think I—”

He can’t help it, maybe the tequila he hasn’t yet sipped has loosened his tongue: “Don’t you have to be coordinated for that, little sapling?”

“Oh.” Dipper cheeks flush pink, and he looks a bit less excited, a bit _hurt_. Bill bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile. “Well, _yes_ , but for the historian part I have the skills to—”

“Here.” He holds out the bottle of tequila to Dipper, gesturing for him to drink. While Bill had initially planned on drinking himself to sleep or to keep himself entertained away from the twins, this is a _much_ better idea. Getting silly little Pine Tree drunk will _undoubtedly_ make the night more fun. He’ll learn a lot of secrets this way.

“Why?”

“Why not?" He throws Dipper a salacious grin.

“No, why do you _have_ that? Who brings alcohol on an _adventure?_ ”

“Adventure? And you didn’t bring any reinforcements?” Bill clicks his tongue, as though he expected better of Dipper. “Pine Tree, we’re in for a _boring_ trip if we can’t let loose. Your sister and I will keep all the fun to ourselves.”

“I don’t really. . . let loose,” Dipper admits. Shocker. Truly, Bill is astounded someone as nerdy as Dipper doesn’t _let loose_. He brushes some of Mabel’s hair from her face. “Maybe Mabel—”

“She’s had a busy day.”

“Yeah. . .” Guilt.

“One little sip won’t hurt, Pine Tree.” Dipper doesn’t look persuaded, and Bill sighs. “If you can walk in a straight line after this, you can probably last one expedition by yourself when you’re an _archaeologist_.” His tone is mocking.

“I. . .” Dipper looks at the bottle, then at Bill again, eyebrows furrowed.

“Didn’t your sister say to open up more?”

“But Mabel. . .”

“What’s a drink between friends?” He leans closer to Dipper, licking his lips. He watches the way Dipper’s eyes follow the movement.

“Friends?” He clicks and unclicks his pen, eventually sticking it into the journal and shutting it. He seems resolute, determined. He’s always been stubborn, but weak to pressure from the slightest insult. Insecure little Pine Tree, easy to bully, wanting so much to _impress_. “You first.”

Bill can almost see Dipper’s thoughts. He thinks that if Bill drinks, he might reveal some of his secrets. That it’ll make Bill friendlier with him. That, of course, is impossible. Dipper _has_ to be a lightweight. Bill can handle his drinks. The only secrets being spilled tonight will be from Dipper’s lips.

“If you insist.” Bill exhales dramatically, taking a large swig, letting the pleasant warmth seep through him. He grins, pressing it back into Dipper’s hands, his fingers brushing Dipper’s. He shivers despite the warmth. “No backing out now, hmm?”

“Umm, okay. . .” He makes a face, looking at his sleeping sister then at Bill again, but he takes a gulp, nonetheless. Immediately his face scrunches in disgust. Bill starts laughing at Dipper’s expression, unable to stop.

“Can’t hold your alcohol, huh?”

“I can, you _ass_!” he insists, taking a larger sip this time. He squeezes his eyes shut as the flavor washes over him, and Bill’s laughing continues.

“Have you ever _had_ alcohol, Pine Tree?”

“Shut up!” He gags as he attempts to take another drink, managing to swallow a bit more. Bill can’t stop snickering. There’s no way Dipper has had even a smidgen of liquor before this. “Oh _gods_ , what’s in that?”

Bill’s smile still hasn’t faded, his sides hurting from how hard he’s laughed. He hasn’t laughed this much in a while. He hasn’t. . . interacted with a lot of people, not since he started remembering his past. Since everyone in the orphanage found his dreams (and nightmares) so annoying. He’ll show them all. He is destined for greatness. “Tequila.”

Dipper coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He passes the bottle back to Bill, visibly shuddering at the thought of drinking more of it. “I know you want to ‘let loose’, but I thought you wanted me to translate everything. Why would you bring _tequila_?”

“Apparently to get little saplings drunk.” Bill elbows Dipper in the side, watching as his eyes water. Interesting. He looked uncomfortable when Mabel grabbed him a bit roughly earlier, too. Bill will probably have a few bruises of his own from dealing with the gremloblin. If he had magic, it wouldn’t have been a problem.

How annoying.

“Why do you call me that?”

“What, Pine Tree?” He waves the tequila at Dipper, encouraging him to drink more. Dipper shakes his head. “You tripped into a _lot_ of pine needles when you fell for me.”

“Fell for you?” Dipper rolls his eyes. “Conceited, much?”

“Hardly my problem if you _literally_ fell for me, Pine Tree.”

“ _Literally_ couldn’t wait to get _away_ from you, you mean.”

“And yet. . .” Bill gestures at the two of them, sitting side by side near a campfire, sharing a bottle of tequila under the stars. Mabel is there with them, but she is blissfully unaware of what she’s missing. Bill can fake sentimentality, for Pine Tree.

“My point remains. Conceited.” Dipper gives him a _look_ , running his hands over the journal cover rather than taking the bottle back.

They glare at each other, inches apart. Time seems frozen. The air feels hot, much warmer than the fire should be making him feel. Maybe the alcohol is affecting him more than he thought. Dipper should stop staring.

“You’re mistaking confidence for being conceited.” Bill taps the bottle with his fingers, resists the urge to poke Dipper’s cheek. “I think you could use a little confidence yourself.”

“Hmm.” They both know Bill is right.

“Glitter. . .” Mabel mumbles in her sleep, burying her face deeper into the bag she’s using as a pillow. Dipper watches her for a bit, radiating protectiveness. “Glue. . .”

“How’s the journal translating going?” Bill asks, dragging the conversation back to where he wants it to go. The _incendium_ fiasco reminds him of how little magic he possesses in this life, how much he still needs to learn and regain. If Dipper had just cast the spell he’d asked, things would be so much _easier_.

Dipper seems reluctant.

Bill scowls. “Not well, I’m guessing?”

“No, it’s. . .”

Who does this brat think he is, _hiding_ Bill’s own work from him? He did more than just _contribute_ a good amount to that journal, as the Muse of the now-infamous _Lord_ Stanford! He could just take the journal back and drown Dipper in the river, find another person to translate.

Hell, he’ll learn the language himself if it means less time with this irritating, good-for-nothing—

“There are a few codes,” Dipper finally says. His cheeks look a bit pink. “I’m working on them with Mabel.”

With _Mabel_. She’s smart, but Bill is smarter. “I can help with them, you know.”

“What? You decode ciphers in your spare time, _Cipher_?”

Bill resists the urge to wrap his hands around Dipper’s pale little throat. Dipper clings to the tiny details he learns, pieces them together like easy puzzles, misses the _obvious_. “I already _told_ you I’m a _salesman_.” Calm. He’s good at dealing with the annoyances of Gravity Falls plebeians. He dealt with it in the past, when he worked his way up the ranks. He’s dealt with it in this present life, when he’s tried to make a new name for himself.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe that.”

“Do you want my help or not?” He can’t help the anger in his voice as he leans closer to Dipper. The heat between them is almost stifling.

Dipper yanks the tequila bottle from Bill’s hands and takes a large drink, glaring all the while. “I’ll _manage_.”

This is not how Bill wanted things to go.

He’s supposed to be gaining Dipper’s trust, not trampling over the fragments of friendship they’ve barely threaded together in this life. He sighs, decides it can’t hurt to be truthful about _some_ things. “Look.” Dipper meets his eyes. “I’m interested in some of the spells in there.”

He wants to punch the smug look off Dipper’s face. “Why?”

“Who isn’t interested in a bit of magic to make their life better?”

“So you believe magic is real?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Dipper’s cheeks look flushed, even in the dim fire light, and Bill’s smirk widens. The alcohol must be kicking in more quickly than expected. How much is little Pine Tree going to tell him? “You don’t seem like you’d believe in magic.”

“I’m the one who chose a random spell for you to cast,” he points out. Better to bring up the concerns himself. “Would I ask you to cast a spell if I didn’t think _something_ would work?”

“I don’t think anything you do is random.”

“Oh?” Bill grins. “What gives you that impression? The fact that I look like a catalog model?”

Dipper blushes. “Oh _gods_ , you _heard_ that?”

“Your mumbling isn’t exactly quiet, Pine Tree. But I’m curious what _else_ you think of me.” He leans closer to Dipper, his smile widening. He _knew_ that both twins liked him. No matter the lifetime, Dipper is _weak_ for Bill. “I look like a model to you, don’t I? And you think I’m too _smart_ to do things at random.”

“You’re _conceited_ ,” Dipper insists, pushing Bill away. “And you lie to me and Mabel all the time, even though there’s no reason you should have to. Unless. . . you have another agenda, beyond what’s getting translated.” He pauses, long enough that Bill wonders if he’s done speaking or if he’s lost his train of thought. “And if you believe in magic. . . then maybe it has to do with magic. What do you want to do with Stanford’s spells?” Dipper’s eyes are wide, reflecting the firelight, the stars in the sky. “What do you want to make better? Or destroy?”

“That’s a big jump,” Bill says, frowning. Dipper’s thoughts are rampant, and he’s so _quick_ sometimes. Even under the influence of a drink. “I’m just an orphan with a fake name.”

They both pause.

What the _fuck_. _Why_ the _fuck_ did he say that?

“Bill Cipher, that’s. . .” No. No. _No_. Dipper smiles at him, and his eyes look so bright. “That’s the first real thing you’ve said to me since we’ve met.”

Bill hates himself, hates that he’s falling for this stupid vixen’s _ploys_ yet again. He tries to clear some of the feelings clouding his head, the fuzzy feeling filling his chest. He needs to twist everything back in his favor, needs to distract this brat from digging any deeper. This is _not_ going how it’s supposed to go.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Dipper is just the king’s whore. He’s nothing. He means nothing. He’s not worth anything. He’s a fucking—

Inhale. He exists to be _used_ , and Bill has no qualms about using him.

Bill leans closer. He can feel the heat of Dipper’s cheeks. Exhale.

Despite the _enamored_ look on Dipper’s face, he still is the infuriating, inquisitive researcher he’s always been. He’s always digging, even when the atmosphere tells him not to pry. “Then the. . .” He frowns. “The spell you wanted me to cast?”

Bill’s expression twists into something less than kind. “The spell you _didn’t_ cast?”

“Yeah. . .” Dipper seems disappointed in himself. Naturally, he would be disappointed, he takes so much pride in his brains. But when Bill needed him, he _failed_. It’s clear these thoughts are weighing on him, and he drinks more tequila, to distract himself. “It wasn’t random, was it? What were you trying to do?” _What were you making me do?_

It would magnify Bill’s magic in particular, since it was a spell Stanford wrote _just_ for his _Muse_. With more magic, finding the second journal, with Ford’s secrets for the portal, with the spells to get Ford’s thoughts back in _this_ dimension, would be _easy_.

“Not sure.” Not that it’s any of _Dipper’s_ business. “It seemed _magical_ , though.”

Dipper doesn’t believe him. “You knew exactly where to look. You flipped to the exact page where _somethi_ —”

“I had it for _years_. I know a lot of things.”

“Like the gremloblin?” Dipper stares at him with such intensity Bill finds himself remembering the little whore from the past, with the way he used to follow and research and suggest. He has confidence, it seems, but it’s misguided, misplaced. “You said you couldn’t read anything from the ancient Falls, but you knew _exactly_ what was chasing us, didn’t you?” The words twist on his tongue, and he stumbles through his dialogue, purposeful but blurred. “The name was under three layers of code, and I’ve read enough about the Falls that I _know_ gremloblin lore isn’t anywhere but in this third journal.”

Bill slipped up. Perhaps Dipper’s paranoia might not be a weakness. How frustrating. “I know a lot of things. That’s all I can say, Pine Tree.”

“You’re not helping your case, _Cipher_.” Dipper smirks, like he’s won something, like the little details he’s been picking up make sense to him. He takes a swig from the bottle, only making a slight sour face at the taste. “You’re _lying_.”

Somehow, seeing Dipper so proud of himself is what frustrates Bill. He doesn’t have the right to act so powerful; he’s just a slave, a whore, a _stupid_ insignificant pathetic—

“And if I am?”

“What’s the point of _lying_?” Dipper’s staring into Bill’s eyes directly, now, the light brown much more intense in the firelight. “What else do you know? _How_ do you know?” Dipper tilts his head, blinks slowly. The words fall from his lips, his thoughts spilling, unbidden. “What do you really want with the journal? What do you want to do with the spells in it? Why do you know so much?”

Bill shrugs. “I know what you do. I just had the journal longer.”

“That’s another lie.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Just be _honest_. You know more than you’ve been letting on. But _why_?” He pauses, looks at Bill so earnestly that Bill wants to punch that expression off his pretty face. “We’re traveling together, we can be friends.” Friends. _Friends_. Pathetic. “I can _help_ you, I’m already helping you. If there’s something specific you need translated, I can do that. I can’t help fight. . . gremloblins, or other creatures we find, but Mabel can.” He stops talking again, thinking. “You just—”

“I don’t need someone like _you_ to like me. I can just take _my_ journal back and find a competent translator.” Dipper blinks in surprise, digs his teeth into his lower lip. It gives Bill some satisfaction. “Bet they’d be a lot less maddening than working with _you_.”

The sound of the fire crackling in the otherwise silent night has never felt so loud.

Bill has been a bit. . . harsher with Dipper than he is with Mabel. He knows that. But he _likes_ Mabel, and Dipper is a frustrating person. His past self doesn’t help their current relationship, either. Always stealing Bill’s attention, with his appearance and his mannerisms and his goddamned—

“I. . .” Dipper exhales, looking away from Bill and back at the bottle in his hands, the journal on his lap. Mabel snores softly. “Okay. I. . . didn’t know you felt that way.”

Bill feels something twist in his gut, and it feels like something has lodged itself in his throat. He starts wringing his hands, mind scrambling, backtracking. He can’t look at Dipper when he’s looking like this, when his expression makes Bill want—

“I guess I did know. The looks you throw at me sometimes. . . I know I can be. . .” Dipper frowns, goes back to running his fingers through Mabel’s hair. “You don’t have to lie to me. And Mabel. We’ll still help you.”

“Noble, are we?” His tone is acidic, but his insides are churning. Always thinking he’s doing the right thing, acting like a self-righteous brat. Dipper hasn’t changed _at all_. He’ll betray Bill the instant it’s possible.

“Just tell me what’s going on!”

“You’ll _sacrifice_ your _precious_ time for poor Bill?”

“ _What_? I just. . .” Dipper seems to struggle with the words, and Bill feels a tiny bit of _something_ the longer he stares. Dipper plops his head on Bill’s shoulder and sighs. He smells nice, Bill notes, stupidly. So stupidly. He’s stupid. This is stupid. Pine Tree is a bit touchy now, isn’t he? “I did something to you, didn’t I?” He laughs. “I definitely did.”

Clearly Dipper is having too many anxious thoughts about him. It’s almost funny, how similar he is to his past self without even realizing. He knows he could be. . . kinder to Dipper. Smoothing their relations would make manipulating him that much easier.

“No. . .”

It’s harder to be patient with Dipper than with his sister, though. There’s no history between them. She doesn’t fall into everything. He’s not attracted to her. She isn’t—

He shoves Dipper’s shoulder, as though it’ll force these very _ideas_ away and out of existence. He _hates_ this boy so _much_.

“Hey!” Dipper tries to shove Bill back, but the angle he turns into must aggravate one of his bruises because he winces. “Why’d you do that?”

Bill raises an eyebrow. Yes, yes, focus on _that_. Pain is hilarious. _Dipper_ is hilarious. A couple strategic nudges could make the bruises so much prettier, could drag their conversation elsewhere. “Are you hiding something, Pine Tree?”

He shakes his head with a soft laugh, the action so quick Bill _knows_ he’s lying. Manipulating people is one thing, but Dipper isn’t savvy enough to keep the truth from _Bill_. No one lies to Bill. _Bill_ is the only one who can lie so easily.

Dipper takes another swig from the bottle to distract, but unfortunately for him, Bill isn’t an _idiot_.

“Come on, Pine Tree.” He sighs, standing up (he doesn’t _stumble_ ) and grabbing Dipper by the arm. He knows he could be gentler, but he’s more curious about Dipper’s possible pain than caring about his other bruises.

Dipper tries to follow, but Bill’s grip on his arm causes him to trip over his own feet, and they both tumble over the log and into each other, a bit away from Mabel and the fire.

“Shit!” Dipper starts laughing.

Well, landing one elbow into Pine Tree’s stomach and face on his chest is one way to get to know each other. He can hear the quickening of Dipper’s heartbeat, feel the way his breathing rate has increased. He smells like the campfire and something else that’s rather sweet. It makes him think of—

_Stupid!_

“Oww,” Dipper whimpers, laughter dying as tries to push Bill off from on top of him. Bill feels frozen staring at the tears prickling the corner of Dipper’s eyes, the way his face is contorted. It’s wrong to be attracted, wrong to keep watching, but he can’t tear his eyes away. Not when Dipper looks like this, when he remembers pressing their bodies together and the way Dipper smiled through the ache and— “Please move,” Dipper begs, breathless, his hands scrambling to force Bill off of him.

Hearing Dipper’s voice reminds him that _this_ is not appropriate. Dipper’s face shouldn’t make him, shouldn’t remind him— He pulls himself away from Dipper, watching as he just lays there for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m. . .”

Bill reaches forward on impulse, and he tugs Dipper’s shirt up, licking his lips as he stares. He sees the large, already purpling bruise on his abdomen, the peaks of dusky brown nipples, the softness of his stomach. His mouth feels dry. He feels very, very warm. He needs to move, to stop staring, to stop _thinking_ of Dipper with gold and black paint across his chest and candlelight highlighting the freckles on his cheeks and shoulders and the way his pretty blush could penetrate the layers of makeup and—

“The _fuck_ , Pine Tree?”

Dipper stays laying down, hands the half-spilled bottle of tequila back to Bill. His fingers are wet with alcohol. He’s smiling now, like they didn’t just have an intense conversation where he was spilling all his questions, letting his thoughts run wild. “Don’t tell Mabel.”

“You want me to _lie_ to your sister.”

“It’s literally nothing. You both were in the hands of a _gremloblin_ today, and I just stood around reading. _Reading_!” Dipper groans, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t even cast your spell, couldn’t find the right page to read, couldn’t translate fast enough. You probably have more injuries than me, and Mabel. . . she’ll get protective, like she isn’t the one throwing herself into dangerous situations all the time!”

Bill sighs. Maybe Mabel needs to be more protective, if this is how Dipper looks after not even a full day of travel. This is why Bill hates incompetence. Clumsy people are so damn _infuriating_. “Fine, fine.”

“It happened in the fight,” Dipper offers, though Bill doesn’t ask and doesn’t want to know. “With the Blind Eye.”

“Ah.” He _doesn’t_ want to know. Doesn’t want to imagine. Doesn’t want to think about how he saw Dipper, small and defenseless, at the feet of the stupid Blind Eye. Doesn’t want to remember the way his rage burned his vision to blindness, to a point he couldn’t even _think_ and all he could do was _shoot_.

It’s Dipper’s fault. For being so clumsy. Awkward, breakable sapling.

They’re both quiet. Bill can hear the sounds of the creatures in the woods surrounding them, the chirping of crickets, the rustling of bats in the trees. The fire crackles gently, and Mabel’s soft snores remind him of where they are.

Maybe drinking wasn’t the best idea. They’re both stumbling through their words, their interactions with each other. The feelings they’ve been hiding are bubbling, overflowing into their actions. Bill has too much to hide.

He lays down next to Dipper, so he can still feel the heat of Dipper’s body next to him. So he doesn’t have to look at Dipper’s stupid flushed cheeks.

This is not how he pictured this time passing. Perhaps memories of his past life would have been better than this.

“Have you ever wanted. . . something _so_ much? So much you _dreamed_ about it?” Dipper asks, out of the blue. Bill frowns. It’s a standard question, an innocuous one. But knowing what Mabel said about Dipper dreaming of ancient Gravity Falls, and knowing that Dipper finding out about his past life could make him suspicious of Bill. . .

How much does Dipper remember about them?

“Have you?”

“I thingk. . .” He pauses, corrects himself, starts speaking a bit more slowly. “ _Think_. I _think_ it would’ve been nice to live in ancient Gravity Falls.”

Nice is relative. Nice to live in ancient times if you were born wealthy, as a king, or as his scientist. Not as the servant who had to work his way up to be _allowed_ near the king’s mage, who was too low on the social ladder to even associate with the _king’s whore_.

“And where would _you_ have. . . fallen in the hierarchy?”

“I _dreamed_ about it, before.” Bill’s ears perk. _Finally_ , something useful out of drunk, emotional Pine Tree. “I imagined Stanford and his Muse.” Dipper sounds like he’s smiling. He probably is. “Not as. . . _raunchy_ as the journal, but I think his Muse must’ve been beautiful. I think of them, his _Muse_ , building the portal. It was underground. . . Like in some sort of stone cellar.”

“A cellar.”

“Silly, huh?”

“What were you doing in this dream?”

“I don’t. . . dunno,” he says rather vaguely. “I was peeking in the door, I was just dreaming of being helpful somehow, I guess. Just a fantasy of being useful.”

_Bill feels the stare of another, turning away from the portal and throwing open the door to their hidden cellar. Of course. He wants to be surprised. The whore stands in the doorway, a small, sheepish smile as he waves at Stanford, then, after some thought, at Bill._

_“Dipper, it’s dangerous for you to come here.” Stanford sounds resigned, but not angry. He could never be angry at his little protégé._

_That’s Bill’s job. “Finished sucking the king’s—”_

_Stanford clears his throat, and Bill can’t tear his gaze away from the heavy, embarrassed blush on the whore’s cheeks._

_“I brought the equipment you requested.”_

_“Excellent! We don’t have access to this material, and the king would be suspicious if I asked. Thank you, Dipper.” Stanford finally looks away from his favorite little whore, bright eyes and a wide smile painting his expression as he turns to Bill. As though the whore’s presence made him forget his_ lover. _“Bill, can you. . .”_

“What a dream.” His voice is flat.

Dipper definitely dreams of his past life. Fleeting memories, where he doesn’t quite realize his role, helping them. Reporting them. His dreams are not to the same extent that Bill has dreamed. But they’re enough. If he remembers _enough_ , there’s the risk that—

“I know,” Dipper groans. They both smell strongly of liquor, and the smell intertwines with smoke, dizzying him. “I picture myself as a scholar.”

_Well, you were definitely not that, Pine Tree._

He presses the bottle back in Dipper’s hands, and Dipper sits up. Not liking the position of being lower than _anyone_ (not anymore), Bill sits up as well.

“What do you dream about, Bill?”

He frowns. Of course, no matter how drunk Dipper is, he finds a way to ask the most uncomfortable questions. His curiosity cannot be satiated. (It’s endearing.) What to say, what to say. He can’t just say he imagines being the Muse, that would be a bit too suspicious. It would be fun to play around with Dipper’s emotions, though, when he inevitably realizes the role he’s playing in this life, the role Bill has played before. But then. . .

“You mentioned you’re an orphan?” Dipper asks, when Bill doesn’t say anything immediately.

“Yeah.” He sighs. He can’t take that back now that Dipper’s run with it, formed his own ideas. “I like to dream I’m the someone commissioning Stanford’s portal being built so I can escape.” His words leave his lips, unfiltered, and he finds he can’t stop. “Not this stupid nobody with dreams of magic and no means to get anywhere.”

“Bill.” Dipper’s hand is gentle on Bill’s arm. Bill’s breath catches. “You’re getting somewhere. Look at you now. A catalog model,” he jokes, and Bill can’t help his smile, feeling the way his expression melts at the look on Dipper’s face, “but also the person who found Stanford’s journal after _so long_. We’re making history!”

“I don’t want to feel like that again,” he admits, glancing at Dipper in his periphery. He won’t remember this conversation anyway.

“When we publish this,” he gestures at nothing, opening his arms wide, “you won’t have to.”

“I’ll make sure of it.” _Believe me._

“Let’s make sure!”

“Pine Tree, that’s—”

Dipper tries to stand up, stumbling as he does so, and Bill has to jump to catch him before he plummets face first into something else. He’s not going to land on Dipper again, not going to remember things he’s purposely ignoring. Dipper is warm against him, and his body feels light, fragile, like he’s holding a delicate piece of art. Dipper laughs, sweet and melodious, face pressed to Bill’s chest.

Painted gold skin, a boy not meant to be touched.

Except that Bill wanted to.

He almost drops Dipper at the thought, but Dipper holds tight, pulling himself up, so he’s facing Bill.

_“Lord William, I—”_

“Bill, I—”

He’s standing on tiptoe, arms around Bill’s waist to keep himself balanced. His eyes are half-lidded, long lashes pressed delicately to his freckled cheeks, his lips moving closer and closer to Bill’s cheek. Bill can feel the heat of Dipper’s breath, see where he’s bitten his lips too hard too many times.

And Bill feels his own eyelids flutter shut as he leans closer to Dipper, his body acting out of instinct and primal _desire_ as he holds Dipper to him, mouths so close as he—

Dipper collapses against him, bottle of tequila dropping to the ground and splashing the remaining alcohol at their feet, face against Bill’s chest as he begins to snore.

Bill blinks. Once. Twice. What did he just. . .

His face is very, very hot. He can’t bring himself to let go of the man in his arms. He runs a hand through Dipper’s hair, soft curls tangling through his fingers.

He’s so warm. He’s so, he’s so. . .

Fuck.

* * *

Dipper awakens with a pounding headache and his entire body sore from whatever position he’s slept in.

His neck hurts like he slept at a weird angle, and his legs are cramped from curling away from the fire and toward Mabel. He sits up slowly, wincing at the way his body protests every movement. His left arm looks horrible, red and purple and little green around the edges, and he doesn’t want to lift his shirt and see what colors his abdomen has decided to become today.

The sun has started to rise.

The light makes him want to vomit. The inside of his mouth tastes horrible. Every movement of his head awakens a powerful nausea he can’t hold back. He doesn’t remember camping ever leaving him this way before, even when he was fresh with the wounds of Wendy’s rejection.

“Waddles!” Mabel cries, jumping up and knocking her head into Dipper’s chin.

“Oww! Mabel!”

The commotion awakens Bill, who scrambles to put on his eyepatch before Dipper even realizes it wasn’t on. Dipper’s mind is too sluggish to process anything, but he files the action away to question later.

“Good morning to you, too,” Bill grumbles, squinting at the light as it brightens the horizon.

“Did you both sleep well?” Mabel smiles at both of them, stretching her arms above her head. Their parents always insisted that stretching every morning is how Mabel wound up the slightest bit taller than him, but Dipper remains doubtful.

Dipper doesn’t comment, the ache in his body a painful reminder of both the previous day’s events and how awkwardly he must have slept. Bill shrugs in response to Mabel’s question.

“Not as badly as your brother, apparently.”

Mabel shoots him a look of suspicion. Dipper wants to make his face the picture of innocence, but he can’t muster the energy to do so.

“How much did we drink?” he asks, as pieces of the night begin returning to him. He was reading the journal. He was talking to Bill. He pressured himself into drinking, into pretending he isn’t as big of a loser as he is. He’s sure Bill saw right through him. He confronted Bill about his lying, managed to squeeze _one_ truth out of him.

Bill made up his name.

Then, nothing.

Bill looks a bit irritated, possibly remembering the night’s events himself. Whatever they talked about is lost on Dipper, and maybe Bill doesn’t remember either, and he’s equally as frustrated. Or maybe Bill does remember, and Dipper did something stupid.

Dipper hopes the alcohol didn’t loosen his tongue enough to talk about _everything_ in the journal. He still doesn’t know how he feels about Bill. He tries to sneak back under his blankets, close his eyes, block out the sunlight marking a new day.

“You drank with _out_ me?” Mabel exclaims, yanking Dipper’s blankets away from him. She’s so _loud_. He doesn’t mind, normally, but his head feels like one wrong move and he’s going to lose all his insides. “Why didn’t you wake me up? That’s exactly the kind of campfire bonding we need to do for an adventure like this!”

“So _loud_ , Mabel,” he whines.

“Don’t do things without me, Dip!”

Dipper groans, mentally begging Bill to take over in the conversation, just so his headache can recede a _little_.

For all his exasperating tendencies, Bill answers Dipper’s mental pleas. “I have another bottle for tonight, Shooting Star.”

Mabel starts shuffling things around. “You better! Did you guys become friends?”

There’s a long enough pause that Dipper cracks open one of his eyes, trying to gauge Bill’s expression. “Sure.” His face is inscrutable when he shrugs. “He’s less annoying than I thought.”

Mabel sounds pleased. “I knew you could get along!”

Dipper isn’t sure what happened the night before, not after Bill admitted to being an orphan, but there’s something light and fuzzy in his chest at the thought of Bill not minding his company. He squeezes his eyes shut again, hoping the warmth in his cheeks will be attributed to the sun rather than Bill’s words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit busier at work these days but I'm still writing! I wanted to write something for the October prompt months (like whumptober, kinktober, _something_ ), but I missed most of them now. Have y'all written anything? Any prompts that stand out as something I should write?
> 
> This chapter was a lot of fun, but a bit difficult to write. It's one of the cuter scenes in "The Mummy" but Dipper and Bill have different personalities from Rick and Evie haha. I hope some of the character development is worth it! Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> (as always, feel free to talk billdip to me on [tumblr](http://ssuppositiouss.tumblr.com)!)


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